"I like that," Alvarez offered. "When do we start?"
"I'm going to meet with each team member this week to put a plan together. Each one of us will have his own preparation and training to do, then we'll practice the separate parts and finally we'll rehearse the entire operation from start to finish. How about if we meet next Saturday, Hector? Take the next couple days off; you've earned it."
Alvarez nodded his assent.
"Where do you want me to drop you, boss? Are you going home now or are you still planning to relieve me for a while?"
"It's too early to go home. I'd just get in my girlfriend's hair," Werner replied with a weary smile. "Why don't you follow Newbury Street to the corner of Fairfield and drop me there. I think I'll hang around Rocco's place for an hour or two and see if I come up with any fresh ideas."
****
For the first time since taking over the bar at the Somerset Club, Frank Werner was not at his duty station during cocktail hour on a Saturday night. Since the entire Club had been reserved for a private reception and dinner, the bar would be closed to the public until the dinner began at eight o'clock. With the reception preceding the dinner being handled by the wait staff, Werner had decided to let them carry on without him. He would open the bar at eight to serve his usual patrons once the guests filed into the dining room. And that would allow him enough time to go home, change clothes, and try to make peace with Carol before returning to open the bar.
Tonight Werner's walk home from the Coolidge Corner T stop to Harvard Street seemed oddly unfamiliar. Unlike his usual walk home, which generally occurred after midnight, tonight the sidewalks along Beacon Street were thronged with people looking to be entertained on a Saturday night but unable to afford more than a cheap meal, a cup of espresso, and a stroll down a crowded boulevard to see what everyone else was doing to amuse themselves.
The milling crowds attracted all manner of street vendors, performance artists, prostitutes, petty thieves, and panhandlers, indeed more than he had seen at once in Brookline since arriving over a year before. But it disturbed him to see among those panhandling not just the usual alcoholics and drug addicts, but many blind or crippled soldiers, orphaned children, elderly pensioners, and entire families of refugees, all desperately seeking a handout from ordinary people carrying a few spare dollars to blow on a Saturday night.
In a vacant lot in the same block as Carol's apartment building Werner saw another troubling sight. Seemingly overnight, a cluster of tents had been erected not far from the sidewalk. Their occupants warmed themselves around trash fires burning in 55-gallon drums while following him with baleful looks as he passed. The sight of cold and miserable men standing around open fires in the darkness brought back disquieting memories of the Yukon that evoked from him an involuntary shudder.
When Werner unbolted the door to Carol's apartment it was nearly six o'clock, which meant that he had little more than an hour to clean up, change clothes, check in with Carol, and perhaps take in a light meal before returning to the Club.
When he saw Carol sitting silently on the sofa, without a book or a magazine within reach and without any music or television or movie playing, Werner sensed at once that the next hour would not be pleasant.
"I'm back, Carol," he announced. "The bar is closed till eight for a private event so I decided to come home to freshen up and offer you some company. Have you eaten yet? I could call out for delivery if you want."
"I've already eaten," she responded dully. "I've left some leftovers in the fridge if you're hungry."
"Could I fix you a drink, then? A glass of wine, perhaps? I could certainly use one."
"No, but you go ahead, dear. I have my mug of tea," Carol replied without turning to look at him.
"Why don't you think about it while I take a shower and change?" he proposed with forced enthusiasm. But when he returned to the living room twenty minutes later, Carol did not appear to have budged from the spot. Werner took a seat beside her on the sofa.
"I've never seen you looking quite so down at the mouth, Carol. What is it, the job hunt?"
"That and everything else," she replied drearily.
"You mean all those things that happen to depend on your finding another job?"
"You might say that."
"How did the interview at the clinic go yesterday?" he inquired brightly. "I thought you would have a pretty good chance there, since they were already familiar with your work."
"Oh, they love my work. Just like all the others did," Carol replied bitterly. "Cordial, respectful. Oh, so very solicitous. I even tricked them into admitting that they had an opening in my field. But when I came out and asked them for it, they slammed the gate right in my face."
"Did they give you a reason?" Werner probed.
"Not directly," she replied, "but it's getting pretty clear by now. It always comes back to how I lost my previous job 'for cause' and how important it is to follow the rules. They parrot the Party slogan about how a doctor is not just a medical practitioner but a public official. And then they suggest politely that I go back and straighten things out with my old employer."
"I see what you mean," Werner agreed. "But there's got to be somebody who'll take a chance on you. Your license to practice medicine is still valid, isn't it?"
"Yes, I can practice, but nobody in Massachusetts will hire me. It seems the Department of Health has blacklisted me."
"Then have you considered a national search?" Werner proposed. "Some states are still desperate for doctors. They might not give a damn what Massachusetts says as long as your resume looks good."
"And live in Little Rock or Oklahoma City or some godforsaken town on the Great Plains somewhere?" she burst out angrily. "No, thank you!"
"It's a big country, Carol," he pointed out gently. "Cities other than Boston have major medical centers, too, you know."
"Like Salt Lake City, I suppose?" she suggested derisively.
"Not necessarily. I could mention Minneapolis, Chicago, Cleveland, St. Louis, or Dallas, but that's not the point."
"Then what exactly is your point, Frank?"
"Something along the lines of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results," he replied, looking her straight in the eye.
"Meaning what?" she shot back angrily.
"That you are going around in circles looking for jobs in places where you're blacklisted," he pointed out. "At the risk of appearing unsupportive, I would suggest that either you try looking for work in places where the blacklist doesn't apply or you sue for peace with whoever controls the blacklist. Your end-run strategy doesn't seem to be working out so well for you, Carol. And I'm concerned that the clock may be running out faster than you think."
"Nonsense!" she replied. "I have enough savings to go on for months without any income and I've barely begun to network my contacts. What clock could you possibly be referring to?"
"Well, I was thinking primarily of the clock that controls this apartment," Werner pointed out. "Now that you've lost your living-space waiver, you're living here on borrowed time. Carol, you know I'm no friend of the Party, but I feel duty-bound to point out that eviction notices tend to come sooner to people who fight City Hall. As a matter of self-preservation, I urge you to consider what can happen in this country to people who defy authority."
"Please, Frank," Carol answered condescendingly. "I really do think you're blowing this all out of proportion. My sole offense was to serve in a free clinic. Of course, plenty of doctors do it, but I'm the one they made an example of, for whatever reason. Now I'm simply trying to pick myself up and move on. I wouldn't exactly call that dissident activity, would you?"
"Perhaps not, but have you considered why they singled you out in the first place? A while ago you said you had crossed swords over the years with the Physicians' Union and you don't respect them much as doctors. Well, the people who run the Union are the same people who run the Department of Health. Could it be payback time?"
&nbs
p; "They wouldn't dare. They just wouldn't," she sputtered.
But Werner pressed on.
"Don't be naïve, Carol. They have your number and if you don't come to terms with them, they may have your hide. Hear me out on this. When the state has it in for someone, this is how it starts. First they look for a law you've broken. That's not hard, because there are so many laws and regulations now that they've made us all into lawbreakers. Then they give you a chance to surrender. If you don't take it, then they reel you in before you even know what's happening.
"You'll get a call from some minor official who is terribly polite and offers to clear up the entire misunderstanding if you would just come in for a brief chat. When you arrive, he takes you to another office down the hall and then somebody else leads you along one long corridor after another. And at the end of the last corridor they shove you very roughly into the back of a police van and take you to an interrogation center without anyone knowing where you are. Interrogation, trial, conviction, camp. It all goes down very quickly, believe me."
Carol Dodge looked at him as if he had just landed in a saucer from Mars. She obviously wasn't buying it at all. Perhaps she might reconsider in time, but if she did, Werner doubted she would share her decision with him or confide in him again. The best he could do now would be to free her from the liability that he now represented to her. As an unauthorized tenant without a Boston residence permit who had served time in the corrective labor system, for him to remain could only speed her eventual eviction. Or worse.
"Carol, I'm sorry we don't see things the same way," he conceded after a long pause. "But the last thing I want to do is to give the Housing Authority one more reason to evict you. I think it would be best if I take my things and move out. There's a room at the Club where I can hole up until I find another place to live."
He rose without waiting for her answer.
Carol rose from the sofa and turned to face him. But instead of speaking, she reached up, wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed a cheek tightly against his.
"I think that would be best," she spoke softly into his ear before releasing him.
CHAPTER 13
Saturday, April 21, 2029
Weston, Massachusetts
Traffic was light as Werner steered the Ford delivery van off the freeway ramp toward the once-prosperous bedroom community of Weston. A darkened police car lurked behind a hedge facing east on Route 20 at the town line, as if expecting trouble from the working class residents of neighboring Waltham. Upon spotting the squad car, Werner cast a nervous glance at the glove compartment where Hector Alvarez had left the van's registration that showed Werner as the owner.
Of course, Werner did not own the vehicle, which was stolen and would be on its way to the Port of Davisville in Rhode Island the next morning to start its journey to a new home in Central America. It had taken Hector Alvarez's chop shop only two weeks to steal, repair, clean, and re-title the van. For this they could thank an obliging Registry of Motor Vehicle official who was more than happy to issue a new title in return for a skillfully forged title from a distant state and a generous gratuity.
In the van's passenger seat was Greg Doherty, dressed in a dark blue tracksuit, running shoes, and Red Sox baseball cap. Under his seat, wrapped in a black raincoat, was a Browning Mark II Safari semi-automatic rifle with attached scope.
"The sun will dip below the horizon just before we get there," Werner pointed out as they passed the Weston police station. "There's a new moon and the cloud cover is here to stay, so it should be pretty dark by the time the guests arrive."
"Not a problem," Doherty responded tersely. Werner cast a quick look at the younger man, who appeared to be in some sort of meditative state.
"Got all your gear?" Werner asked with a half smile, as if aware that the question was superfluous.
"Checklist complete," Doherty replied.
"Then I guess there's not much of a need to go over the plan with you again. A clean shot, a clean escape and you get your life back again."
They drove on in silence, entering the heart of Weston and turning right at the cemetery onto Concord Road. They continued north for two miles and, upon turning right again, Doherty stiffened visibly in his seat, took several deep breaths, and patted his pockets and waistband to confirm that all his gear was in place. It was just past seven thirty p.m. and they had arrived at the northern edge of Harry Kendall's property.
"Remember to look for my signal on the lamppost tomorrow," Werner reminded Doherty as he slowed in preparation for the drop-off. "High position means all is well, no further contact. Medium position means inconclusive, stand by for further instructions. Low position means initiate your escape plan. No signal by noon also means start the escape plan. To call for a meeting, leave your usual signal by noon. And ignore any other message that purports to be from me. Unless you signal me, I won't be in touch. Now, go."
****
Werner drove on with the image of Doherty still in his mind's eye, a dark figure limping toward the tree line with the hunting rifle strapped to his leg. Everything hinged now on Doherty's skill with a rifle. But it depended even more on Werner's judgment as team leader. He had gathered the intelligence, devised the plan, recruited the team, procured the weapons and equipment, and trained and rehearsed the team for the operation. If anything went wrong, he knew that it would likely be due to some error or omission of his own, something the other team members could not have been expected to foresee, because only he had a complete overview of the operation. Such was the nature of compartmentalization and centralized control that the success or failure of the operation lay squarely on Frank Werner's shoulders.
At the end of the road, Werner turned north, away from Kendall's property and away from the guest traffic approaching Kendall's reception from the south. Looping back to the center of Weston and detecting no sign of anyone following him, he parked outside a coffee shop on the Boston Post Road and went inside.
The only other patrons in the shop, an elderly couple sipping coffee in the corner, paid no attention to him as he picked up his espresso and walked to the toilet at the back of the shop. There he waited a few moments, depressed the toilet flush with his foot to avoid leaving fingerprints, and left through the back door to the parking lot. He spotted Hector Alvarez's silver Toyota waiting for him in a dark part at the rear of the lot.
Alvarez opened the door for him to enter and drove half a block before switching on the headlights as they approached the Boston Post Road.
"How's it going tonight?" Alvarez questioned Werner when they turned into traffic. He appeared relaxed but well grounded.
"Right on schedule," Werner replied confidently. "He'll have a half hour to settle in, plus another ten or fifteen minutes depending on how late the target arrives."
"Any changes for me, or do I stick to the plan?" Alvarez inquired.
"No changes from what we rehearsed. Park where I showed you–south of the property entrance on Conant–and wait in the woods as close as you can to the entrance. When you see the maroon Galaxy with GSA plates, zoom in to confirm it's the right car and signal by radio when the Galaxy enters the driveway. Once you've signaled, double back to your own car and circle back to the pickup site."
"Where should I wait if he's late for the pickup?" Alvarez asked.
"Don't go straight to the pickup site, that's for sure," Werner answered emphatically. "Wait on Colchester or Laurel for the Shooter's signal and signal him right back, just like in practice. He'll head for the edge of the woods when he gets it and will come out when he sees your approach."
"Where do you want me to take him?"
"Just keep going west on Route 20 and drop him off wherever he tells you," Werner continued. "After that, stop for dinner in Framingham somewhere once you're sure nobody's following you. And be sure to check for surveillance again on your way home."
"And after that?"
"You're on your own. Look for my signal on the mailbox. High position me
ans no further contact required. Medium position means stand by for instructions. Low position means use your escape plan. If there's no signal by noon, go to the escape plan. To call for a meeting, leave a signal by noon. Any other message that claims to be from me will be a fake. I won't be in touch unless you signal for me."
Alvarez raised an eyebrow.
"So this is the end, amigo?"
Werner nodded.
"For now, at least," he added. "Meanwhile, take good care of yourself, Hector. I'd hate to have to fill your shoes with those two nephews if anything happened to you."
****
It was a quarter past eight when Frank Werner arrived at the Somerset Club after leaving the van in a parking garage in the Theater District to be picked up the next day by one of Hector's men. He changed quickly into his white bartender's jacket, starched front shirt, and bow tie and joined Steve behind the bar.
To Werner's surprise, the Club was nearly packed, though very few of his usual customers were in the crowd. This puzzled him until he recalled that this was the night that Jake had decided to experiment with hiring live entertainment in an effort to attract a younger clientele. According to Jake, the talent he had booked had also helped his friend boost traffic at the friend's club in Cambridge. The talent was available tonight, Jake's friend told him, because the Cambridge club had been booked for a wedding.
Werner scanned the faces of the guests and saw an unusual number of academic and intellectual types in corduroys and tweeds, along with a dozen or so in the skinny black pants, bulky sweaters, and long, striped scarves favored by artists like the ones Werner had seen outside Franz Meier's office in the Leather District. The balance of the customers appeared to be graduate students and undergraduates above the drinking age.
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