Star Chamber Brotherhood

by Preston Fleming

  One by one the floor numbers lit up on the indicator above the elevator door, reaching six before the whirring stopped and the door opened with a dull thud two floors above him. Then the whirring resumed, the numbers declining, until the cab descended to the lobby.

  Two or three minutes later Alvarez stiffened when he heard the stairwell door open again on the ground floor and a pair of middle–aged female voices jabbered gaily as they climbed the first flight of stairs. He breathed a sign of relief when the voices faded away a few moments later into the second–floor corridor.

  Though relieved at having avoided an awkward situation, Alvarez noticed that the stairwell seemed warm and airless and he was perspiring heavily.

  In the same instant, he heard the elevator motor spring back to life and watched the indicator numbers climb, hesitate, and stop at four. With a clank and a thud the elevator door opened and Fred Rocco stepped out into the corridor.

  Having seen the Warden at close range more than once during his imprisonment at Kamas, Alvarez recognized him without difficulty. Rocco looked as imposing as ever in his dark business suit, standing well above six feet and looking remarkably fit for his fifty–three years. But even in the semi–darkness, Alvarez detected a vacancy in Rocco's expression and a slackness in his face that made him appear a far lesser man than the godlike Warden of Kamas had been.

  Alvarez waited until Rocco took three steps forward into the corridor and silently slipped behind him, firing three shots into the center of his back at close range. The roar of the pistol deafened him and the muzzle flash lit up the corridor. As if in slow motion, he saw Rocco's tall figure pitch forward and fall headlong onto the floor and then continue to writhe slowly as if half–conscious.

  Alvarez wasted no time in stepping up to the body and firing two more shots at the back of Rocco's head. The first shot ripped the scalp from the crown of Rocco's skull but the second shot missed its mark when the head rolled to the side. He pulled the trigger again and heard a faint click.

  Werner had warned him that the .45–caliber ammunition was old, perhaps dating all the way back to the Vietnam War, and might misfire. Alvarez grasped the slide with his left hand and cleared the chamber of the dead round to fire again. Six rounds gone, two remaining, he muttered to himself.

  But he had not noticed the apartment door that opened to his right. Suddenly he heard a piercing scream and saw a woman step into the corridor and face the body lying on the floor. She screamed again and took a halting step forward. Now she stood directly between him and the rear staircase where he had entered. A moment later a second door opened at the end of the hall.

  "Freeze!" he shouted and fired a round into the ceiling just above the woman's head. She fell back and the door at the end of the hall slammed shut.

  Seven rounds down, one remaining.

  Alvarez bolted past the woman, knocking her backward with a blow from his forearm as he went, and fired his last round into a ceiling light just before entering the stairwell.

  On his way down the stairs he ejected the empty magazine and slipped it into a trouser pocket before inserting the spare and releasing the slide to strip a fresh round into the chamber. He raced down the stairs, flinging his baseball cap to the floor and pulling off his jacket as he went. Upon reaching the ground floor he paused to listen for the sound of approaching footsteps, then slowly opened the stairwell door. He saw and heard no one.

  Taking a deep breath, Alvarez slipped the pistol into his waistband, pulled out his shirt to cover the exposed grip, and emerged into the corridor. A cool breeze met him as he walked out the back door and stepped into the waiting Nissan.

  Werner took off down the back street, turned right at the next block, then left onto Marlborough and left again onto Berkeley to ascend the ramp leading to the divided highway of Storrow Drive, straddling the Charles River.

  Neither man spoke until they had reached cruising speed and were satisfied that no siren was following them.

  At last Alvarez turned his head to face Werner with a smile that appeared eerily serene.

  "So how did it go?" Werner asked self–consciously.

  Alvarez shrugged and let out a sigh but said nothing.

  "Well, is he dead?" Werner pressed.

  "I think so," Alvarez replied in a flat voice.

  "What do you mean, you think so?"

  "I shot him three times in the heart and he stopped moving," Alvarez replied without emotion. "But who knows, he could have been wearing body armor under his jacket. It was too dark for me to see blood against a dark background. I also got in a couple of head shots but they weren't very good. Then the gun jammed on a dud and I had to get out. I really don't know, Frank. He ought to be dead, but I could be wrong. I suppose we'll have to wait and see."

  "My God, Hector," Werner replied nervously, "all I can say is, he'd better be dead. I couldn't stand this kind of excitement again."

  Alvarez raised his dark eyebrows as if questioning Werner's machismo. The strain was evident in his eyes. Werner had never seen him look so exhausted.

  "By the way, Hector, you don't look so well. You should get some rest."

  "There will be time for that tomorrow," Alvarez answered. "Tonight I leave for Miami. By this time tomorrow I'll be in Cuba. It's a business trip but I will take time to relax while I wait for news that Rocco is dead. Havana is a beautiful city, Frank. You should come sometime."

  "Are you out of your mind, Hector? I don't even have a residence permit, let alone an exit visa. They'd never let me out of the country in a million years."

  "So? I don't have an exit visa either. Travel to Cuba is just another racket. You pay a fishing boat captain to take you out and he pays off the Coast Guard to leave the boat alone. Once you're in Cuba, they don't even look at your documents. You could show them a child's passport or fake one and they wouldn't care. It's Cuba's way of thanking us for all the years that America accepted Cuban boat people."

  "Sounds great," Werner replied doubtfully. "With my luck, the boat would develop engine trouble. But no, you go enjoy yourself, Hector. You've earned it."

  "Okay, suit yourself, boss. But you really ought to try it. They make some pretty good rum down there. Maybe you could do some business."

  Werner laughed.

  "In my dreams, Hector. In my dreams."

  CHAPTER 17

  Friday, May 17, 2029,

  Boston

  Frank Werner arrived at the Somerset Club just after lunch and found his assistant in the lobby directing a team of waiters and busboys in how to arrange furniture for the private dinner to be held at the Club that evening.

  When he saw Frank enter, Steve broke free and intercepted his boss at the door.

  "You've got somebody waiting for you in the bar," he reported with an air of urgency.

  "Job applicant?" Werner inquired.

  Steve shook his head.

  "I don't think so. Says he's a friend of yours from Concord. He came on Tuesday when you were out but wouldn't leave a message. He's been waiting for an hour."

  "Thanks, I'll take care of it," Werner replied and started across the lobby.

  "Not just yet," Steve replied, waving him back. "Jake told me to send you upstairs first. He's frantic to see you."

  "Okay, then, tell the visitor I'll be down in a few minutes. Be sure to offer him a drink."

  "Sure, no problem," Steve agreed before dispatching the furniture movers into the dining room.

  Werner found Jake Hagopian behind his massive oak desk in the club's business office on the second floor.

  "Come in and sit down," the owner greeted Werner warmly as he pushed aside a sheaf of papers stacked before him on the desk. "Do you remember what day it is today?" he asked with a sly grin.

  "It's the seventeenth of May," Werner responded with a puzzled look.

  "Yes, and exactly one month ago, with you sitting in that same chair, I offered to sell this fine club to you and you promised to answer me in a month. That's what day it is."<
br />
  "Oh," Werner said thoughtfully. "And I suppose you'd like your answer now?"

  "I'm waiting," Jake confirmed.

  "And my answer," Werner said, pausing for effect, "is that I've decided to sell the bar back to you, Jake. I want to get out of Boston and settle down in Utah before I get too old to make a fresh start. I've stayed here long enough."

  "And did you find what you came here for?"

  "I believe I did, Jake."

  "Then you've found your daughter?" Hagopian probed.

  "Yes. She's safely out of the country," Werner answered. "So no matter what becomes of me, she's going to be okay."

  "Well, goddamn if that isn't a happy ending to beat all happy endings, Frank. I'm thrilled for you," Hagopian declared. "Hearing your good news almost makes up for the pain of having to buy the bar back from you at a jacked–up price."

  "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Jake. I hope you find another buyer soon who'll meet your price."

  "Oh, never mind about that," Hagopian replied with a dismissive wave of the hand. "I'll find one. Now the question is: how soon do you want your cash?"

  Jake's obliging response caught Werner by surprise.

  "As soon as you can you have it ready, I suppose."

  "Well, I thought the deal might go this way so I had my attorney prepare documents for both possibilities," Jake confided. "We can close Monday afternoon if you want to. Could you be here at four o'clock?"

  "With pleasure," Werner answered cheerfully. "And, Jake, if there's anything I can ever do for you–"

  "Don't mention it," Hagopian cut him off with an easygoing smile. "But I hope you're still available to work the bar this weekend. We'll be a bit short–handed around here until we can bring in some new help."

  Werner nodded in understanding.

  "I'll be here. It's going to be hard to leave."

  Without appearing to listen, Hagopian reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and brought out a bottle of amber spirits and two heavy shot glasses.

  "Frank, I think you know me well enough to understand that I'm not the kind of person who would try to talk you out of something once you've made a decision," the club owner began. "But I would be dishonest if I didn't admit that I'm disappointed over it. You could have made a real institution out of this Club and I would have loved to see it. I hope you do as well in Utah. But more than that, Frank, I'm going to miss you. I hope you'll be happy whatever you decide to do."

  Hagopian filled both glasses to the brim and held one out to Werner. It was Jake's favorite drink: Ararat Five Star, an aromatic and richly flavored brandy from his native Armenia.

  "Here's to the good years left in us," Hagopian declared as he raised his glass. "May we live to enjoy them!"

  The two men clinked glasses and downed the brandy in a single draught, Russian–style.

  ****

  When Werner returned to the bar, he found Parker Motley waiting alone at a table in the center of the room. Unlike when Werner had met him digging a garden bed at the Old Manse dressed in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, Motley now looked like a Harvard don in his three–button camel's hair blazer, pleated flannel trousers, and polka–dot bow tie.

  Motley stood and greeted Werner warmly as soon as he entered the room.

  "I have some good news for you," he said, accepting Werner's handshake. "I thought of writing you a note, but on second thought decided it would be a better idea to come and deliver it in person."

  "That's very kind of you," Werner replied. "Please excuse me for keeping you waiting so long."

  "Not at all," Motley assured him. "It was a real treat to come here and see the Club again. I remember coming here to lunch with my grandfather when I was a senior in college, during the winter of 2001. He was a member and so was my father, until the Events. But enough of that.

  "The good news is that I have a message for you from Monica Cogan. She's been trying to reach you for weeks but the friend who passed her last message to you has moved away, so she didn't know how to contact you. Anyway, Monica has been in touch with your daughter Marie. She says Marie is in London and was overjoyed to hear that you were still alive and in Boston. More than that, she sent Monica a letter for you."

  Parker Motley held out a small sealed envelope addressed "To Marie's Father" in a woman's handwriting that Werner did not recognize. Werner's hand trembled to hold it.

  "It's been seven years since I saw her," he mused. I can only imagine what she's been through. Did Monica say what Marie is doing over there?"

  "She told Monica she was staying with friends of her Aunt Joan in Mayfair and taking courses at the Central School for Speech and Drama."

  "Mayfair? Not bad for a refugee," Werner commented huskily as he returned the visitor's kindly gaze. "Leave it to Marie to land on her feet, eh?"

  He slipped a finger under the sealed flap but stopped short of opening it. Instead, he dropped it into a jacket pocket and steadied himself with a hand on the polished mahogany bar.

  "Wow, I think I may need a drink before I sit down to read this. May I offer you something? Cognac? Champagne?"

  "You wouldn't happen to have calvados by any chance?" Motley asked sheepishly. "You may not remember, but when we met, you suggested that I try distilling some of my cider into applejack. Well, since then I've decided to give it a go and am very curious to sample the genuine article."

  Werner's face broke out in a boyish grin.

  "You're in luck, mon ami. Voila, the finest calvados from Normandy."

  He took the bottle off the shelf and filled two brandy snifters, then wrapped the half–filled bottle in brown paper and set it on the bar before Motley.

  "The rest is for you. Here's to your success as a distiller. And may your applejack find a home someday here at the Somerset Club."

  ****

  Motley stayed for a half hour, accepting a glass of Serbian plum brandy and one of Swiss Kirschwasser while describing Concord's progress at restoring the kind of local economic self–sufficiency that had prevailed during the early nineteenth century under President Thomas Jefferson. Two centuries later, from the detritus of a collapsed economy, Concord had restored a thriving farmer's market and flea market, established a sophisticated barter network for services, and attracted enough health–care practitioners to serve Concord's basic medical needs except for a nagging shortage of pediatricians and obstetricians.

  Suddenly it occurred to Werner to have Carol Dodge give Concord's hospital a call if her other options failed and she lost her apartment. A blacklisted pediatrician might do worse than to set up an off–the–grid practice in a town like Concord and live off the fruit of the land. He thought of giving Motley her name but thought better of it. When the time was right, he would give her Motley's name instead.

  As soon as Motley stepped out the front door and onto the portico with his bottle of calvados, Werner returned hastily to the bar and closed the door behind him. Sitting at the same table in the center of the room where he had met with Motley moments before, he tore open the envelope and found a folded piece of copy paper onto which an excerpt from a webmail message had been printed:

  "Dear Daddy,

  Today was the happiest day in my life. A message reached me from an old Concord classmate that you had visited her. Having lost you for so long and fearing I might never see you again, no news could have given me more joy.

  "I can only imagine how you must have worried about me and Mommy and Justine while you were away. By now you must know that we lost Mommy and Justine to the Saigon Flu the year after you were taken from us. That year was as close to hell as I think I will ever live to see.

  "If I had not already made plans to study in London, I don't believe I would have had the determination to escape before the borders were closed. And if Uncle Claude and Aunt Joan had not already moved here, I don't know how I could have survived the first year.

  "If you are able to send letters out, please write to me immediately at Aunt Joan's and tell me…"


  Before he could finish the sentence he heard footsteps behind him. The door opened and a disheveled figure slipped through the door and closed it without a word.

  Werner turned to see a familiar face scan the room with fearful eyes before fixing him with an unsteady gaze. It was Harvey Konig, dressed shabbily in a baggy blue blazer and creaseless gray trousers, his unshaven cheeks and tousled hair giving him the look of a sleepless fugitive who dared not return home. It seemed so unnatural a state for a well–tended man like Konig that Werner could not help but assume the worst.

  "Surely you realize, Harvey, that you're too hot to be showing up here," Werner admonished him. "More than hot. Radioactive."

  "I didn't come here to see you, Werner," Konig replied dully. "I came to see Oshiro."

  "I haven't seen Hank in weeks," Werner lied. "I kicked him out for selling drugs. That wouldn't by any chance be why you wanted to see him, would it?"

  "I won't lie to you. I ran out of sleeping pills."

  "That's odd," Werner remarked. "Hank told me he sold his entire stock to you just a couple of weeks ago."

  "You wouldn't happen to know where he went…"

  Konig's face showed that he sensed Werner's disapproval.

  "Oh, never mind," Konig replied. But a moment later, a new light entered his eyes. "But if it wouldn't be too much trouble, there is another favor I'd like to ask."

  "I'll help if I can," Werner answered warily.

  "Would you mind putting this letter in a mailbox for me? The Blues Brothers are still following me and if I post it, they may intercept it. It's to my family."