Star Chamber Brotherhood

by Preston Fleming

  Before Werner could respond to his friend, the prisoner beyond Lewis, a lithe, rail-thin Mexican with wild hair and hatred in his eyes, rose and rushed at Tucker screaming wildly in Spanish. In the blink of an eye, Lewis extended a leg and caught the youth by the ankle, sending him sprawling headlong into the dust. The squad of guards escorting Rocco raised their weapons the moment they saw his approach. Werner was certain they would have shot the attacker without warning if Lewis had not acted first.

  "Don't be stupid!" Lewis hissed at the youth as the guards rushed forward with truncheons raised. "You're young. Survive!"

  Then the blows rained down on the hapless Mexican, with plenty to spare for Werner, Lewis and the other prisoners immediately surrounding the prostrate youth. Werner covered the back of his neck with his hands and lay on his side in a fetal position until the guards dragged their prey back to his place and returned to their positions flanking Rocco and the clerk.

  A few minutes later the team reached Werner and the clerk ordered him to give his name and serial number. Werner noticed a glimmer of recognition in Uriah Tucker's eyes as they glared coldly at one another. Meanwhile, Rocco and the civilian clerk looked hard at Werner and Lewis and exchanged knowing glances. Tucker had not yet denounced a single prisoner. What would he say now when confronted with these two notorious rebels?

  "Frank Gilbert Werner, W7228," Werner called out to the clerk.

  The clerk flashed a confident smile at Rocco as if both knew full well Werner was a rebel and that Tucker could not possibly be unaware of it.

  But Tucker passed Werner by without a word. The puzzled clerk looked to Rocco for guidance but Rocco shook his head as if telling him to watch and wait.

  Now Tucker stepped in front of Dave Lewis. The two glared at each other, their eyes showing both hurt and rage, as if each felt deeply betrayed by the other. But neither spoke.

  "Name and serial number," the clerk demanded.

  "David Belknap Lewis, L6173," Lewis responded coldly, without taking his eyes off Tucker.

  Again Tucker remained silent and moved on to the next man in line, the Mexican youth who had risen to attack him. But the youth was still sprawled on the ground, writhing in pain, and unaware that the team had reached him.

  Werner's heart raced with exhilaration at having narrowly missed being denounced as a rebel. Casting a sidelong glance at the injured Mexican, he felt sympathy mixed with a selfish hope that the youth would draw the team's attention even further from himself and Lewis. But the hope was short-lived.

  "Just a minute, Tucker," Rocco demanded. "Do you know either of these two men?" He pointed to Werner and Lewis.

  Uriah Tucker remained silent and would not look at Rocco.

  "I believe you do," Rocco continued. "One of them ordered you murdered and the other tried to carry it out. You testified against both of them at a disciplinary hearing in April. Are you holding out on us, Tucker?"

  Tucker lowered his head in resignation but said nothing.

  "One last time. These men are ringleaders in the revolt and you damned well know it," Rocco declared. "Are you going to identify them or not?"

  Fred Rocco removed the pistol from his holster and held it to Tucker's temple.

  "Answer me, Tucker. It's now or never."

  "Go ahead, shoot me!" Tucker blurted out in despair. "I'm not ratting on anybody else for you. So do it. Shoot, motherfucker!"

  "Sergeant, take this prisoner behind the wall and shoot him as he requested," Rocco ordered coldly. "And on your way back, bring me another informant from the trailer. Go! Now!"

  Two guards seized Uriah Tucker's arms and hustled him down the aisle toward the north wall, sobbing and wailing as he went. Werner could pick up only a few fragments of what Tucker shouted, but it sounded like an agonized plea to be forgiven for having betrayed his fellow prisoners. Werner had never seen a sadder end to a once fine man than this.

  "And as for these three here, take them to the transport," Rocco continued, looking directly at Lewis. "If Kamas wasn't good enough for them, we'll see how they like Yellowknife."

  The rest of the squad came forward with pistols drawn and led the three prisoners toward the gate. A few moments later, Werner heard a pistol shot, then a second, and knew that Uriah Tucker was dead.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sunday, May 12, 2029

  Back Bay, Boston

  The travel alarm on Frank Werner's bedside table rang with a fierce insistence, the bell's vibration edging the clock off the table and onto the parquet floor before ending its obstinate clang. Upon opening his eyes, the first thing Werner saw was the morning sun framing the heavy, pull-down window shade with a rectangle of brilliant white light. He stretched an arm across the bed to touch Carol but no one was there. Three weeks after his move into Linda Holt's spare bedroom, he still reached out every morning.

  Though Werner had stayed at the Somerset Club until one o'clock sorting out the aftermath of Jake Hagopian's ill-fated experiment with live music, this was not a morning when he had the luxury of sleeping in. He raised the shade and checked the time: seven thirty a.m.

  After a quick visit to the bathroom, Werner dressed quickly and made a beeline for the front door of the apartment to retrieve the morning newspaper. There on the third page, below the fold, he found the article he was looking for. To his surprise, however, the man in the photo under the headline in no way resembled the tall and trim Fred Rocco. This was a much smaller man, narrow shouldered and wide of girth, whose bald pate and pencil-thin mustache made him resemble a latter-day Himmler. The dead man was not Rocco but Daniel Devane, Regional Director of the Department of State Security.

  The headline read: "Federal Official Killed by Stray Bullet in Weston." In reading the first few lines, Werner found not even a hint that the shooting might have been a political assassination. On reflection, this did not surprise him much, since the Unionist regime had for nearly a decade imposed a media blackout over all incidents of violence against government officials. Yet clearly the article confirmed that a shooting had occurred the night before in Weston and that his team appeared to have shot the wrong man.

  Werner let out a low whistle as he considered the implications of the news but was shaken out of his reverie a moment later by the sound of a door opening across the hall. He quickly shut the door behind him and spun around to read the article.

  "A stray bullet from a hunting rifle apparently fired by an illegal deer hunter struck down a senior federal official Saturday night as he arrived at a private reception in Weston," the article began. "The victim, Daniel Devane, was a veteran of thirty-five years in law enforcement, serving most of his career in New England with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Department of State Security. According to police sources, the gunman remains at large, but reports of illegal hunting are common in the area and an investigation is underway."

  The balance of the article described Devane's personal history, the highlights of his government service, his surviving family, and the government's latest campaign to confiscate illegal firearms from misguided citizens. Harry Kendall's name and address did not appear anywhere in the article. Werner re-read it from start to finish and breathed a sigh of relief. Though the DSS and local police must have concluded in private that Devane had been murdered, the media blackout made it easy for them to avoid undue urgency in their investigation. Reading between the lines, Werner decided that the article might as well have said that the police were rounding up the usual suspects.

  Despite his relief that the government might not yet be hot on the team's trail, Werner recognized that not only had he and his team committed a grave error, but they would now have to start from scratch in finding a way to carry out their mission. Whether the others would agree to continue was far from certain, he knew. And until they communicated with him, he could not even be certain that all of them had survived the mission and remained undetected. If even a single team member were captured and forced to confess, capturing the others
would be only a matter of time.

  Werner felt a heavy burden of responsibility for having drawn the other members into such a predicament. He had promised each of them that, when the operation was finished, their work would be over and they would be free. Indeed, he had told Doherty and Alvarez just the night before that he did not intend to recontact them after leaving them a final signal this morning. If he asked more of them, they might reasonably claim that the operation was complete, though a failure. Surely, had he demanded from the start that they remain until Rocco was dead, he doubted that any would have signed on.

  As for himself, he had promised Dave Lewis to kill Rocco, not just to take a pot shot at him. He would find another way to keep his promise even if he had to do it alone. But no sooner did this thought take form in his mind than the telephone rang. He stepped into the living room to pick up the receiver.

  It was a cheery, youthful voice and after a moment Werner recognized it as Sam Tucker's.

  "Hi, I'd like to order some bagels and coffee for takeout. Do you have any onion bagels this morning?"

  "I'm sorry, but you've dialed the wrong number," Werner replied politely.

  "Isn't this Baumstein's on Commonwealth?" Tucker persisted.

  "No, sorry, they're 8667. We're 8367. Dial again," he suggested, and hung up.

  Werner looked at his watch. The wrong-number call meant that Sam wanted to see him at the Museum of Science at noon. It was nearly eight now. He would have four hours to travel from Brookline to Newton to Jamaica Plain to lay down signals for Doherty and Alvarez before meeting Sam at the Museum in Cambridge. He could do it, but there would be little time to spare.

  He folded the newspaper carefully and replaced it inside the plastic bag as if it were unread. Then he wrote a note for Linda and returned to his room for a jacket.

  When he returned, he heard a clatter in the kitchen and found Linda in her flannel dressing gown making coffee.

  "I'm making drip this morning. Would you like some?" she asked with her usual enthusiasm.

  "Thanks, but I'm afraid I have to run," he replied, surprised at seeing her up so early.

  "Is something wrong?" she asked, sensing his unease.

  "No, I'm fine. I just forgot that I'd agreed to have breakfast with an old customer of mine in Newton and I'm running late."

  She gave him an indulgent look, as if she disbelieved his story but was prepared to allow him space.

  "Even God needed a day of rest once in a while," she pointed out. "You're not a spring chicken anymore, Frank. You really ought to slow down."

  "I will; really, I will," he replied earnestly. "I'll be back for lunch and look forward to a long nap. Last night was murder."

  Linda Holt gave him another skeptical look over her eyeglasses and returned to measuring coffee into the filter.

  ****

  The bright morning sky had turned partly cloudy by the time Werner stepped out of the subway train at Elliott Station in Newton and felt the chill wind penetrate his thin windbreaker. Though he was confident of not having been followed, he took his time strolling down Centre Street until he found the lamppost where he left chalk signals for Greg Doherty to call for meetings and message pickups. He scrawled an "S" at navel height, signifying that the results of the operation were inconclusive and that Doherty should stand by for further instructions, then moved around the block to observe the window of Doherty's bedroom for an emergency contact signal. The signal was a stuffed teddy bear on the windowsill and it was to be used only in an emergency. As Werner turned the corner he glanced up and spotted the bear.

  Werner waited until he was back on Centre Street before checking his watch. Then he stopped two blocks further at the coffee shop where he and Doherty had bought coffee a month earlier when recruiting Doherty for the Star Team. A sense of dread passed over Werner when he recalled Doherty's past bouts of depression and alcoholism and the stress that he would be under after learning, as he must by now, that he had shot the wrong man.

  He found Doherty sitting at a corner booth in the back of the coffee shop, drinking coffee, and crushing a cigarette in an ashtray half-filled with butts. He wondered how long Doherty had been there and sensed from the deep lines in his hawklike face and the faraway look in his eyes that the combat veteran had not slept at all.

  Doherty acknowledged Werner's arrival with a nod.

  A few seconds after he took his seat the waitress appeared at his elbow to hand him a plastic-laminated menu. She was the pretty redheaded teenager with freckled cheeks who had sold him coffee the last time.

  "Some rye toast and black coffee, please," he instructed her without opening the menu. "How about you, Greg?"

  "Nothing, thanks," he replied.

  "More coffee, Sir?" the waitress asked.

  Doherty hesitated before answering.

  "Sure, one more hit, if you don't mind," he said, giving the waitress a kind but very tired smile.

  When she was out of earshot, Doherty spoke in an anxious voice.

  "Did you catch the morning paper?"

  "I did," Werner answered. "What happened out there?"

  "Everything was cool at first," Doherty began with a faraway look, as if reliving the events. "The stand-by signal came in loud and clear and then I spotted the red Ford turning into the driveway. Just before it stopped to unload, I got the ready signal, so I took aim. A passenger got out of the back and I had a clear shot at him. I could practically count the stripes on his tie when I pulled the trigger. Only afterward did it click for me that the guy didn't look much like the photo you gave me. In the photo, the guy was tall and kind of athletic and had a full head of hair. The guy I hit was short and dumpy and bald. That's when I knew I had really screwed up."

  "If you've read this morning's paper, Greg, then you should also know that the dead man also had plenty of blood on his hands," Werner remarked. "He's sent thousands to the camps in his time. God only knows what else he's done. I really don't think you should beat yourself up over a guy like that."

  "Maybe not," Doherty replied, "but the point is, I hit the wrong guy. The real target is still walking."

  "Well, not for long," Werner answered calmly. "We'll nail him soon enough."

  "If you do, it'll be without me, Frank," Doherty announced. "I'd probably just mess it up again, anyway. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I am just a worthless screw-up. Without the Army or the camps telling me what to do all the time, I'm clueless. Ever since I came back to Boston, I haven't been good for much of anything. Uncle Ed would be the first to agree: he tells anyone who'll listen how incompetent I am. Even Moira doesn't trust me to do the right thing. Sometimes she treats like I'm one of her boys. Frank, since I left the Yukon, you're the only one who's truly believed in me. And now I've let you down, big-time."

  Doherty picked up his cup but it was empty. He dropped it with a look of frustration and self-reproach.

  "Look at me, Greg," Werner demanded, seizing the hand that had dropped the cup. "Your father has been wrong all along and you know it. You're a fine man and a fine soldier who's served his country with honor and paid the price for it. So don't start listening to your father's voice now. Are you still going to your AA meetings?"

  Doherty nodded. "Went this morning. Good thing I did, or I might not be here to talk to you."

  "Well, keep going–twice a day if you have to–until you get over the hump," Werner insisted. "And more than that, I think it's high time you parted ways with that uncle of yours. Didn't you say your sister Sharon moved down to Georgia with her family? Is she doing okay down there?"

  "Yeah, I think so. She's been wanting me to visit."

  "I suggest you find a way to do it," Werner advised. "If you like the place, see if you can get a job down there. You can always invite Moira to join you later if it works out. Give it a try. A fresh start would do you a world of good."

  "I'll think about it," Doherty responded tentatively. He was spared the obligation of saying more by the waitress's arrival with coffee
and toast. She poured the coffee and retired with a sweet smile for each of the men.

  "One other thing," Doherty continued. "I've read about the dead man's family. I know he did a lot of harm to people, but I still feel bad for his wife and kids. I'd like to make it up to them but I wouldn't know where to begin."

  "You were raised a Catholic?" Werner asked.

  "Yes."

  "Do you still believe in God?"

  "I guess so. At least most of the time, I do."

  "Well, then, ask Him," Werner suggested. "All I can say is this: everything you did last night was carried out under the legitimate authority of the Star Committee. You did your duty the best you could in pursuit of proper orders. Your responsibility ends there. The results are the Committee's responsibility for having ordered the operation and mine for having planned and directed it. So I suggest you pray for the dead man's soul and his family as you would for any soldier you may have killed in battle. And, if it's any consolation, that's a lot more than the Unionists ever did for the likes of us."

  "Okay, I'll think about it," Doherty replied. "Thanks for being in my corner, Frank. Again, I'm sorry for letting you down."

  "Nonsense, Greg. Shake it off," Werner urged. "You've done your part and it's over. Now, are there any loose ends I can help you with? Do you need any money to cover your travel?"

  "Well, actually, I could use some extra cash for the ticket," Doherty responded, brightening. "It's another week till payday."

  Werner reached into his wallet, peeled back five one-hundred dollar bills, and slid them across the counter.

  The younger man's eyes opened wide.

  "Really?"

  "I mean it," Werner replied, squeezing Greg Doherty's hand. "Pack your bags and go. Tonight."

  ****

  Dark clouds heavily laden with rain scudded across the horizon as Frank Werner exited the Jackson Square station in Jamaica Plain. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker and braced himself against the chilly north wind. It was already half past nine but there were few people on the street on this quiet Sunday morning.