Star Chamber Brotherhood (28 page)

But the disquieting sound of Hector Alvarez jacking a .45-caliber round into the chamber of the Army Colt pistol brought Werner’s thoughts back to the business at hand.

“Just in case this is a go, do you remember the exit plan?” he quizzed Alvarez. “I’ll be waiting for you with the car in the alley behind the apartment building . But if for any reason I’m not there, meet me at the corner of Dartmouth and Marlborough. Okay?”

“Got it,” Alvarez replied.

Both men watched the Ford ahead of them turn left onto Beacon Street at the edge of the Commons, and waited for the car to signal left, which would signify a return to Rocco’s apartment on Commonwealth Avenue. Instead, the Ford drove straight through the next intersection and remained on Beacon. Werner felt a surge of excitement pass when he realized that Plan B was now in motion.

“He’ll look for a parking spot on Beacon,” Alvarez predicted quietly. “Turn right as soon as it’s legal and get onto the back street so you can drop me behind the building before he arrives.”

“Will do,” Werner replied and made the turn as instructed. He stopped the Nissan just past Exeter, so that no one at the corner of Exeter and Beacon could see Alvarez’s approach.

“ I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done,” he said just before Alvarez opened the door. “Good luck.”

Hector Alvarez nodded and disappeared into the alley.

****

The apartment building was a century-old structure that appeared to have been renovated shortly before the Events, but had fallen into disrepair over the years following the imposition of rent control. From his repeated surveillance of the building, Hector Alvarez estimated that it housed an assortment of pre-CWII tenants, most of them elderly, and younger New Class tenants who had paid substantial key money to take over the rent-controlled leases of departing tenants. He had already verified that the building had no doorman, only a night security guard who came on at 8:00 p.m. The rear entrance remained unlocked during the day, because many of the tenants parked their cars, bicycles, or motorbikes along the back street.

Alvarez found the rear stairwell and entered it. Before mounting the stairs, he slipped on the windbreaker and the leather gloves, donned the baseball cap, and stuffed the empty canvas tote into a jacket pocket. After tucking the pistol into his waistband and the spare magazine into a trouser pocket, he quietly began to climb the stairs, hyper-alert to his surroundings. Since the antique elevator had been repaired the week before, he did not expect many tenants to use the stairs. He stopped on the fourth floor landing and opened the fire door carefully with his left hand, leaving his right free to pull the pistol from his waistband if he needed it.

To his delight, Alvarez found the corridor only dimly lit by overhead fixtures, with half the fluorescent bulbs missing or dead. The poor lighting would have little or no effect on his aim, but would seriously impair the ability of any witness to identify him. At the opposite end of the hall he saw the elevator and above it the illuminated indicator showing the location of the cab. Seizing the opportunity, he traversed the corridor at a brisk walk and entered the stairwell to the left of the elevator. As the stairwell door closed to a slit, he heard an electric motor kick into action.

One by one he watched the floor numbers light 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 jabber 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 again, 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 slackness in his face, which made him appear a far lesser man than the godlike Warden of Kamas.
 

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 load a fresh one. 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, removing the canvas tote from his jacket pocket and stuffing his baseball cap and the jacket inside 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 slipped 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 Storrow Drive freeway.

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 back 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 took a couple of head shots but they were off-center. Then the gun misfired and I had to get out of there. I don’t know, Frank. He ought to be dead, but I could be wrong.”

“My God, Hector,” Werner replied nervously, “all I can say is, he’d better be dead. I couldn’t stand having to do this 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 need some rest.”

“There will be time for that tomorrow,” Alvarez answered. “Tonight I leave for Miami. By morning I’ll be in Cuba. Havana is a beautiful city, Frank. You should come sometime.”

“Fat chance of that without an exit visa. They’d never let me out of the country in a million years.”

“So what? I don’t have an exit visa either. Travel to Cuba is a 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 a 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. “But with my luck, the boat would develop engine trouble or my name would turn up on a watch list. No, you go enjoy yourself, Hector. You’ve earned it.”

“Okay, suit yourself, boss. But you really ought to try it. They still 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 Steve 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 over 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 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 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.”

“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.

“I think so. She seems to be 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 pay even more.”

“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 until we can bring in some new help.”

Werner nodded in understanding.