Date: 2010-12-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Science Fiction; Mystery; Dystopia; Thriller; Action
Description: The second book in the Kamas Trilogy begins five years after the Kamas revolt. A Kamas survivor who returns to Boston is ordered by the prisoners’ covert Star Committee to kill the commandant who crushed the revolt. Boston. 2029. Five years after the Kamas revolt.Frank Werner, a Boston businessman arrested for dissident political activity, has survived a brutal government assault on a mutinous corrective labor camp in Kamas, Utah, and a year at hard labor in a remote Yukon tungsten mine. He gains amnesty during a brief political thaw and returns to Boston illegally in search of his only surviv
Rights: All rights reserved

Star Chamber Brotherhood

Preston Fleming

PF Publishing, Boston

This eBook is a work of fiction. Names characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Preston Fleming

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form of by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

PF Publishing

Boston, MA
www.prestonfleming.com

Cover design by Charlotte Zoller

Edited and formatted for eBook by:

Launchpad Press

Cody, WY
www.launchpad-press.com

ISBN-10: 0-982-95941-9

ISBN-13: 978-0-98295-941-1

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Dedication

Für Elise

CHAPTER 1

Zero Day: Saturday, May 11, 2029
Weston, Massachusetts

Hank Oshiro had not seen so many polished black Fords and Nissans in one place since 2012, nor as many gold Swiss watches, English bespoke suits, or handcrafted Italian loafers.

"So this is where all the money went," he muttered.

Oshiro had come to hate the people he served at parties like these. Over the past two decades they had inherited the earth but, as he knew from hard experience, they were anything but meek.

Oshiro pulled his starched white waiter's jacket down around his hips while he stood in line at the bar for his tray. He had not worn one of these starched numbers since he was in college fifteen years earlier and the mandarin collar was already chafing his throat. It was a simple enough job to serve straight-pour liquor to this group of middle-aged men and a few women, but he could not shake the uneasy feeling that, despite his long-ago experience and recent crash-course refresher training, someone would expose him as an impostor.

He picked up his tray, already loaded with a rare pre-War fifth of barrel-reserve bourbon, a carafe of spring water, a clear acrylic ice bucket, ice tongs, and six double Old-Fashioned glasses, and made his way through the crowded service area back toward the reception tent and the receiving line.

Holding the tray with one hand, he reached casually into his trouser pocket to confirm that the slender two-way radio and laser pen were still in place. Then he continued along the rear of the reception tent toward the spot he had been shown the day before on a hastily sketched map of the property. It was about ten or twelve meters from the nearest corner of the reception tent as guests approached by car from the main road.

From that spot, Oshiro would have an unobstructed view of each approaching car as it slowed to disgorge its passengers at the end of the red carpet some ten meters from the reception tent. The only problem was that the marked location, being out of the way, was an unlikely position for a waiter who was being paid to remain close to the guests.

No sooner did Oshiro arrive in position than he felt the two-way radio vibrate in three quick pulses, meaning that the target had turned off Church Street and was only three or four minutes away. A crowd was already assembled along both sides of the red carpet. Franz Meier, the catering company's owner, was directing every waiter he could find to the area where the newly arrived guests had gathered.

Oshiro cast a glance across the fields toward the stone gates at the eastern edge of the property and saw a dark sedan emerge onto the gravel road. He strained his eyes to discern its color in the gathering darkness.

Suddenly he noticed Meier coming his way with quick nervous steps and a scowl imprinted on his deeply lined face.

"You, Server, what is that on your tray?"

"Bourbon, Sir, 12-year-old barrel reserve."

"Good, exactly. But why are you hiding it? Quickly, go to the carpet and stand ready for the Director. He is a whiskey man and he likes his neat."

"The Director?"

"Go, please. He is arriving in a few moments and must be attended to. Verstanden?"

"Jawohl… Yes, Sir."

As he started toward the receiving line, Oshiro cast a sidelong glance toward the stone gates and saw what now appeared to be a dark maroon Ford sedan approaching the fork where the driveway became circular. He walked slowly, glancing over his shoulder twice more before the sedan reached the fork. At that moment, he reached into his pocket and pressed the call button on the radio.

He quickened his step now, moving close to the outer fringe of the crowd forming along the red carpet. The host, dressed in a neatly tailored slate-gray pinstripe suit of a quality Oshiro had not seen for over twenty years stopped him and poured a glass of bourbon for himself with a splash of spring water. The man conveyed an air of casual elegance that would have drawn baleful stares had he dared to show himself outside of tightly patrolled enclaves around Boston where the Unionist nomenklatura and their new class of parasitic contractors, consultants and lobbyists lived and worked.

Oshiro maneuvered through the crowd so that he had a clear line of sight to the approaching sedan. He strained his eyes to identify the license plate number. Yes, there was the S, and the tall twin 1s, the hyphen, and the 22 at the end. He reached into his pocket and pressed the call button again.

Oshiro scanned the crowd and spotted Franz Meier nearby. Meier returned his gaze with a stern look and a curt wave that spurred Oshiro to move even closer to the red carpet.

Now the heavy sedan pulled to a stop opposite the red carpet while valets in forest green windbreakers rushed to open the passenger door.

Oshiro held his breath. Even after five years, he was certain that he would recognize Frederick Rocco without difficulty. But now the question came to him: would Rocco recognize him? It seemed improbable–after all, Rocco had supervised thousands of prisoners in his career, three or four thousand in Kamas alone at any given time.

But, as every prisoner knew, veteran security professionals sometimes possessed an uncanny ability to detect those who had spent time in the camps. Rocco may have never laid eyes on Oshiro, but what might Rocco do if he happened to glance his way? Denounce him as an Enemy of the People and order his arrest? Was it possible that he might give himself away, perhaps through his eyes?

Oshiro took a step back from the crowd and slipped his hand into his trouser pocket for a third time. In a moment it would not matter whether he were spotted or not.

He watched the passenger step onto the gravel road. The guest was of middle height, narrow-shouldered but wide of girth, and wore a nondescript undertaker's suit. His balding head displayed an obvious combover and the pencil-thin mustache on his lip made him resemble a homegrown Himmler. The man might well be a State Security official of some kind, but this was certainly not Fred Rocco.

Suddenly panic gripped Oshiro. He had not yet pushed the button, but what if the shooter pulled the trigger without receiving his signal? What would be his instructions? Should he abort or wait? The plan did not anticipate a situation like this.

Without thinking, Oshiro turned his head and cast a glance back toward the woods near the stone gates. He saw a muzzle flash at the forest's edge and a moment later heard the crack of the bullet as it passed close by. He felt electrified as he watched the wrong man jerk backward when the rifle bullet tore through his chest, then half-turn and crumple onto the red carpet.

The others in the crowd reacted in a variety of ways. Those with military training hit the deck, while a handful of security men rushed forward to surround the victim and hustle him back into his car, dead or alive. Most of the other guests and wait staff remained in place with stunned expressions, incapable of coherent action. A few appeared unaware that anything at all had happened and continued to argue, joke, and drink without interruption.

But for Oshiro, time seemed to compress. It took him less than a second to assess the situation and decide what to do. Slowly he edged around the crowd as if returning to the serving tent, deposited his tray on an empty trolley, and removed his white jacket. Then he glanced behind him and set off at a brisk walk across the field toward the nearest woods.

He crossed the forty meters at a brisk walk and, once inside the forest, hid behind a tree to watch his back trail.

Two security men in green windbreakers were already halfway across the field. When they saw him stop, one of them pointed.

Oshiro's mind raced; he knew what he had to do. He ran another twenty meters into the forest, turned left, pulled out the laser pen and used it to search for a place to bury the radio under a thick layer of pine needles. Then he ran back to join his original path and continued deeper into the woods, more slowly and quietly now, watching and listening for his pursuers.

For several minutes he heard nothing. Evidently they knew something about man-tracking and small-unit tactics, he thought, expecting that the pair had now split up and might attempt to outflank him. Perhaps they had radioed for backup. If they had, he thought, he would need to adjust his strategy as well.

Not more than a minute or two later Oshiro heard a broken twig behind him and froze. He reached into his pocket. The laser pen was still there.

From a different spot some ten or fifteen meters to his left, a calm and steady voice addressed him.

"Freeze! Put your hands up slowly. Now!"

In an instant Oshiro ducked behind a tree, pointed his laser toward the man and shined it at his eyes.

"Drop your weapon and lie face down or I'll shoot," he replied, every bit as calm as his pursuer.

And at that moment, the second security man fired his pistol three times, killing Oshiro before his darkened laser hit the ground.

****

Hector Alvarez drummed his fingers nervously on the gearshift lever of his silver Toyota sedan while he strained to listen through the lowered window for approaching footsteps. Alvarez, a tall, lean man in his mid-forties with military-length, salt-and-pepper hair and a darkly handsome face, glanced at his watch.

"Ten more seconds and we're out of here," he said to his passenger, whom he had picked up just minutes before at a spot nearby carrying a hunting rifle with telescopic sight. "That's the plan, and we're sticking to it. Spotter has an alternate escape route if he misses his pickup. It's all in the plan. He'll be fine."

"I still don't like it," the passenger replied. This was Greg Doherty, age 40, a man of similar athletic build and whose boyish face and straight blond hair gave him the appearance of an aging surfer. The men had not met before and did not know each other's names. Each knew only the other team members' positions: Spotter, Shooter, Driver and Chief.

"Wait here. I'll find him," Doherty announced.

Suddenly the car doors clicked shut.

"Unlock it," Doherty demanded.

"No can do," Alvarez answered firmly. "We all knew the risks before we signed on. We're sticking to the plan."

At that moment they heard three faint pops from deep within the woods that they both recognized as pistol shots.

"That's it," Alvarez declared. "We're out of here."

"But we can't just leave him," Doherty objected.

"It's my call. I'm the driver. We're following the plan."

Doherty looked off toward the woods and clenched his teeth. In the Army, even in the darkest days of the Russian War, he had never left a fallen comrade behind.

Hector Alvarez put the Toyota in gear and slowly pulled off the shoulder without switching on the headlights until he had turned onto Laurel Road and was certain that no one was following.

They continued on Concord Road toward downtown Weston without speaking. As they approached the strip of shops on the Boston Post Road, Doherty broke the silence.

"Right turn here. I'm getting out."

Alvarez looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"You're sure of this?"

"Let me out. Now," Doherty insisted.

"Have it your way, boss," Alvarez replied indifferently. "I just hope you know what you're doing."

"Yeah, it's been real, dude," Doherty replied and stepped out into the darkness.

CHAPTER 2

ONE MONTH EARLIER Wednesday, April 11, 2029
Somerset Club, Beacon Hill, Boston

Werner had felt unbalanced all day. The sensation was difficult to pin down. It was a disordered, befuddled feeling, but with an expectant, almost effervescent aspect, as if something momentous were about to happen. But with only fifteen minutes until closing time, Frank Werner could no longer see how anything momentous was likely to happen tonight.

He looked through the double doors that led from the bar to the dining room. The last diners had departed by eleven and the headwaiter had finished resetting the tables for the following day. In general, business had not been bad for a Wednesday night. Fortunately for the Somerset Club, bar revenues more than compensated for poor attendance in the dining room. That was good, because Werner owned the bar.

The Somerset Club, a venerable institution dating back to the 1850s, had been a private social club for wealthy Bostonians for more than 160 years when the Unionist government imposed new regulations that drove all sorts of private clubs out of business and forced them to sell their assets to local governments for pennies on the dollar. A decade later, during the nascent economic reforms following the death of the President-for-Life, the City of Boston auctioned off the former clubhouse at 42 Beacon Street. The double-bayed structure, of French design decorated with hand-carved stone cartouches, had once been the most expensive private dwelling in Boston. Nearly two centuries later, its purchaser was a straw man representing a leading member of the City Council, who sold it at a quick profit to the current owner, an immigrant dealer in recycled building materials and gray-market construction equipment.

Werner turned his attention back to cleaning the granite counter behind the bar and putting his jiggers, shakers, strainers, muddlers, and other cocktail equipment in their proper places on the shelf behind him. With his attention focused behind the bar, he failed to notice a stranger who took a seat at the barstool directly across from him. Upon looking up, he spotted the stranger in the mirror.

The man was dressed in a brown tweed sport coat and gray flannel trousers, his knit tie clipped to his shirt with a gold tie bar. The visitor removed his olive loden hat and set it on the stool beside him. Werner turned around to take his order.

By his dress, Werner could have taken the man for a former Somerset Club member who had found his way back to the club upon hearing about the bar's growing reputation for quality spirits and cocktails. People from Old Money still remained in Boston and they did tend to gravitate to their old haunts. But most of them were broken men: frail-looking, weak-willed, gray-complexioned creatures who survived on remittances from their émigré children or the proceeds from selling off their dwindling cache of family heirlooms.

But this man was anything but weak, Werner thought. He was a few inches short of six feet, barrel-chested, thick-shouldered, yet spare at the waist. By his trimmed gray beard, receding hairline, and weathered complexion, Werner judged him to be in his fifties. The man folded his hands on the bar and looked at Werner with a trace of amusement. The hands bore the unmistakable signs of hard labor–very hard. These were the hands of someone who had served time in the labor camp system.

A thrill seized Werner. Did he know this man? Had they perhaps been fellow prisoners? He strained to recollect where he might have seen the face before.

The stranger's eyes showed an unmistakable spark of intelligence. Werner detected humor, curiosity, self-assurance, and a complete lack of fear. This was indeed unusual in the Unionist America of 2029. Nearly everyone Werner met in Boston had been traumatized in one way or another by what most people now referred to in shorthand as "the Events." The only people who did not show fear were the Unionist nomenklatura and their New Class protégés, along with the criminal underclass and the special breed of men who had mastered their fear in the camps.

"What would you like?" he asked the stranger.

"Pour me a shot of your best bourbon," the man answered with a half-smile.

"That could get expensive," Werner informed him with a raised eyebrow. "Do you have a particular mark in mind?"

The stranger shook his head.

"Any pre-War bourbon or sourmash will be fine. Bonded if you have it."

"You've come to the right place, my friend. How about some Woodford Reserve? We just..."

"Make it a double. Straight up. No ice."

Werner nodded and reached down to fetch the bottle from a low shelf. He measured three ounces and poured a bit more, meeting the stranger's gaze as he did so.

"That will be twenty New Dollars. I think you will be pleased with it. The final batch of this bourbon was bottled over fifteen years ago. Bought it from a widow in Brookline…"

The man peeled off a twenty and a ten and laid them on the counter without looking up. He took the glass and drank.

"What's the matter, Frank? Don't you remember me? Do I look that different without a jumpsuit?"

Werner felt a shock. He could not place the face or the voice but now he knew where had met the man. Suddenly he realized why he had felt so odd all day. The long-awaited turning point had come; his life was about to change.

The stranger pulled a folded piece of newsprint from his inside jacket pocket and laid it on the bar. As Werner reached for it, the man downed the remaining whiskey and stood to leave.

"I have something else for you, Frank. Hold out your hand," the man announced in a tone that remained cordial but did not permit questioning.

Werner did as he was told and the man handed him a white paper disc the size of a half dollar onto which was drawn a five-pointed star with the numeral "1" at its center.

"If you remember the man in the article, you'll likely remember me. Now, listen carefully. When you leave here, I want you to walk up the hill and turn right onto Park Street. If I pass you, follow me. But if I don't pass you, just go on home and look for me another night. I can explain later."

Without waiting for a reply, the man turned and walked out the door.

Werner felt the blood rush to his cheeks as memories streamed into his head of the corrective labor camp in Kamas, Utah, where he had once been a prisoner. He glanced around the room but no one was paying any attention to him. He unfolded the newsprint and read.

One side of the paper contained single-spaced government notices in small print. On the other side was an advertisement for a state-run department store and an article showing a photograph of a middle-aged government official under the heading, "Former DSS Official Appointed Regional FEMA Director."

A wave of rage and disgust washed over Werner as he read the laudatory article about Frederick Rocco's career progression: first in the FBI and the Department of State Security and now in FEMA, where his new challenge centered on providing emergency housing for refugees from flooded coastal areas in northern New England.

Of course, Werner remembered Rocco. Fred Rocco had been commandant of the corrective labor camp at Kamas during the prisoner revolt of 2024. It was Rocco who had brought in tanks and troops to retake the camp. And it was Rocco who had signed the order sending Werner and three thousand other prisoners to Arctic punishment camps to suffer and die without a trace.

The presentation of the star could mean only one thing: the Star Committee had sentenced Rocco to die for his crimes at Kamas. And Werner had been selected to carry out the execution. This was an honor and a duty that he knew he could not refuse. And yet he questioned it.

****

Though April was nearly half over, the weather was still wet and cold, with heaps of frozen snow generating pockets of fog on Boston Common. Ever since the decade-long series of volcanic eruptions that rimmed the north Pacific from Japan to Mexico and darkened the skies over the entire Northern Hemisphere, America's temperate zone had experienced a mini-Ice Age from which it was now only emerging. Much of Canada and Northern New England had been barely habitable until the mid-2020s. Fortunately for Werner, his two years in the Yukon had occurred after the thaw had begun.

Werner had been fifty-one at the time of his arrest, fifty-three during the Kamas revolt, and fifty-five when he was released on the brink of death from the Yukon's infamous Mactung tungsten mine. Now, at fifty-eight, he had recovered much of his former health and strength and still possessed a phenomenal resistance to hardship that only the rare combination of extraordinary genes and the trials of the labor camp system could have imparted.

Only by a series of miracles had he survived Kamas and the Yukon and found his way back to Boston. On reflection, Werner was astounded by the evidence that someone else had accomplished the same feat. Now he was eager to learn how this extraordinarily fit and prosperous-looking fellow prisoner had done it.

Werner locked up the bar and wished the headwaiter a good night, then opened the door onto Beacon Street and felt the brunt of the icy wind across Boston Common. After years of working outdoors, sometimes with clothing that was miserably inadequate, Werner still suffered the misery and pain of cold weather the same as anyone else. What distinguished him from most people facing such conditions was direct experience of what terrible cold the human body can tolerate and the mental practices that enabled him to withstand it.

Tonight Werner wore a handmade wool sweater from Maine under a traditional Burberry-style trench coat, without scarf or gloves, and felt adequately equipped to undertake the walk across the north side of Boston Common to the Park Street T Station.

He was halfway along Park Street, having passed a row of boarded-up storefronts and vacant lots opposite the north edge of the Common, when he saw the stranger step out of a doorway some fifty meters ahead. The stranger turned left onto Tremont Street and Werner followed.

On most nights when Werner left the Somerset Club, the sidewalks along Park Street were lined with unruly drunks, prostitutes, and panhandlers who harassed most every person passing by. The alleys and doorways along Tremont Street reeked with urine and feces where the homeless and the insane crowded together on cardboard flats against the cold. To Werner's relief, at this hour, the chilly north wind had driven the homeless off the streets, leaving only a few random night workers, all-night coffee venders, and transit police outside the Park Street T Station, while a few meters away on the Common, a pair of horse-mounted police surreptitiously shared a flask of hooch.

When Werner saw the stranger vanish into a gated alley just short of the Tremont Theater, he followed. The stranger closed the gate behind them and the two men finally met in a recessed doorway that was invisible from every direction but straight up.

In the darkness, Werner could see that the stranger wore an authentic Austrian hunting coat of green loden cloth with the leather collar turned up to meet the brim of his Tyrolean hat. Where he had obtained such stylish relics Werner could not begin to imagine.

Werner waited for the stranger to begin.

After a few seconds of silence, he addressed the man:

"Excuse me, but I still can't recall your name. Would you mind refreshing my memory?"

"Of course," the stranger replied. "I'm Dave Lewis. I was your inside contact on your first Star Committee mission. Remember? And later we were at Mactung together."

"Okay, I do remember," Werner recalled. "Again, please forgive me, but both of those episodes are a bit blurry, since I spent a week in the isolator after the first and nearly died from exhaustion during the second. But I do remember your face and have the sense that we were buddies, at least at Mactung. Am I right?"

"You are."

"Then I thank you, Dave, because the isolator turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to me. And, if it weren't for the fluke of being sent to Mactung, I would probably still be chopping wood in one of those Yukon death camps, if not buried in one. Tell me, how on earth did you make it out?"

"I'm afraid that's not something I can share with you just yet, though I look forward to doing it soon. That is, once our mission is accomplished," Lewis added.

"So a Star Chamber still exists for Kamas after all these years? And are you the Star Master?"

The visitor nodded.

"It took us a while to reconstitute, but we did. And now we have lists of those in the CLA and the Kamas administration accused of serious crimes against prisoners. Very few remain alive. Hardesty, Cronin, Whiting, Chambers–all dead within a year or two of the revolt. Of those still left, we have convicted only one: Rocco. When his sentence is carried out, the Committee has decided it will dissolve."

"Okay, that's clear enough," Werner acknowledged. "But why come to me? I already did a mission for the Committee. I thought that each man only had to do one."

"That would be correct, Frank. But, as you may recall, the mission was never completed. Our target, Uriah Tucker, survived and went on to betray hundreds of prisoners to Rocco, including you and me. And nearly all of them died in the Arctic without a grave, without a record, without a memory. Except for us and a few others."

"And none of the others is available to help?" Werner probed.

"Frank, you are the only one who can possibly do what needs to be done. You live in Boston, you are a former intelligence officer, you're under their radar, and most of all, you have a stake in the outcome. We're counting on you to bring it together and make it happen."

"But for God's sake, Dave, I don't even know how to begin! How do I put together a team for this? Where do I find teammates willing to risk their lives over a place that no longer exists?"

"There are more survivors of the camps in Boston than you may realize. A surprising number of them are connected in some way to Kamas. Consider all your friends and acquaintances and casual contacts as potential candidates and you will find the men you need."

Werner felt a growing unease in the face of Dave Lewis's persistence and apparent confidence that Werner would ultimately relent.

"I have one more problem, Dave," he continued. "And it's a big one: I'm not a spring chicken anymore. I'm pushing sixty, I'm worn out, and I'm tired of the fighting and killing and struggling to survive. Sure, Rocco deserves punishment, but why not leave it to God? It's been five years since Rocco flattened Kamas.

"You many not know this," he went on, "but I have a daughter out there somewhere I'm trying to find. And a fine woman right here in Boston has kindly taken me in and seems rather fond of me. And there are other people in this town who count on me more or less for their livelihood.

"Somehow I've managed to make a life for myself at age fifty-eight in a town I've never much liked, and here you come along and tell me I've got a higher duty to a bunch of guys who are long dead. How am I supposed to convince other men with less of a stake in this than I have to risk it all when I'm not fully on board with it myself?"

Dave Lewis paused, took his hands out of the wide slit pockets in his loden coat, rubbed them together, and blew on them. Then he spoke softly, all the while looking into Frank Werner's eyes as if searching deeply for clues.

"I've come a long way for this conversation," Lewis began. "Believe me, none of us would have placed this burden on your shoulders if there were any other way.

"Frank, it is not flattery when I say that you are an officer and a leader and man strong in both intellect and character. Make no mistake: it is the nature of strong people that they create the choices from which others select. When you pick the members of your team, it will be up to you to find reasons to help each of them to make the right choices. And in doing so, you, too, will come to accept the wisdom of what you've done."

"And maybe I will," Werner replied. "You've made a persuasive case and I would probably regret it for the rest of my life if I turned you down. But if I agree to put this team together and we succeed in killing Rocco, I will have committed premeditated murder, which is wrong by any moral or spiritual code on this earth. Can you honestly tell me that killing Rocco is worth taking on that kind of sin or karma or whatever it is that the angels weigh when we cross over to the other side?"

Dave Lewis smiled.

"I can't answer that one for you, Frank. But throughout history, God-fearing men have decided soberly to take on the burden of sin when faced with extraordinary evils like totalitarianism and tyranny. It can be a slippery slope, I'll admit, but philosophers in ancient China, Greece, Rome, the Catholic Church, and even modern theologians have all made reasoned cases for it.

"Think of Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, or the Taliban. Would God have preferred good men to have stood by and let the usurpers take everything? One can't expect to live in a free country without defending it, and that's not limited to repelling foreign invaders. In times of tyranny, men who aspire to remain free must bind together to bring down the tyrant or live out their lives as slaves. It's always been that way, and that's going be my own defense when I meet my Maker."

Werner sighed before lowering his head in submission as if a heavy weight were being placed on his shoulders.

"All right, then. How much time do I have for this?

The visitor shrugged.

"Rocco will be well protected. You'll need to allow enough time to assemble your team and plan the operation."

"That could take months," Werner mused.

"Perhaps, it doesn't necessarily have to. You see, this year will mark five years since the Kamas revolt. The anniversary of the first day is about forty days from now, on May 19. And the revolt lasted for forty days. How about that for a coincidence?"

"I don't believe in coincidences," Werner replied.

"Neither do I, to be honest. But, in any event, I'll be back in forty days. We'll each have a glass of your excellent bourbon and drink to the men who couldn't be here. What do you say?

"Forty days. I'll do my best."

****

It was past two in the morning when Frank Werner unlocked the front door to the apartment building on Harvard Street in Brookline. Yet, when he passed the building superintendent's door, he saw a light through the peephole. He had never encountered such a dedicated gatekeeper–or busybody–as this odd and irksome woman who seemed to mind everyone's business but her own yet was always willing to lend a hand when needed. He waved as he walked past the peephole toward the staircase.

When he reached the sixth floor at last and entered the apartment, he was surprised to see Carol at her desk writing a letter.

"You certainly are a dedicated correspondent, Carol," he said as he greeted her. "I hope you're not telling all your friends about how I hang out in bars until two in the morning every night."

Carol Dodge put down her pen and faced Werner with a coy smile.

"I never worry about you becoming a lush, Frank. You're much too sensible to drink up your profits. And I don't much worry about your seeing other women, either. I've begun to wonder if you even notice women anymore. You've lived in a man's world so long that we've become invisible to you."

Werner approached her from behind and planted a tender kiss at the nape of her neck. He had met Carol just over a year ago and had moved in with her not long after. She was still a very attractive woman at the age of forty-eight and Werner had surprised himself on that memorable occasion by mentally undressing her as they spoke about their children, who had attended the same private school in the years leading to the Events.

Carol had been grocery shopping near her apartment in Brookline and her black jeans and black t-shirt had revealed a trim and graceful figure. Similarly, her shoulder-length black hair, tied with a red ribbon into a ponytail, had given her a distinctly girlish air. If they had been twenty years younger, Carol Dodge would most definitely have been Werner's type, or one of them.

Before the Events, Carol had been married to Peter Dodge, the CEO of the Boston teaching hospital where she was a senior pediatric oncologist. Though she had no children of her own, she was devoted to her stepson, who had once dated Werner's older daughter. She had lost that son, a newly minted naval officer, in the Russian War, and had lost her husband a few months later in the Longwood Riots, during which he had acted heroically to preserve the Longwood hospital district from destruction at the hands of crazed rioters, arsonists, and looters.

"I worried about you, Frank. What happened?"

"The T broke down again. I had to walk."

Werner released her shoulders and walked across the living room to the windows and looked out toward nearby Beacon Street.

"You know how I hate your being on the streets so late at night," she complained. "It's dangerous. Stay at the Club, if you must. But don't risk your life on the streets. There are people who care about you, Frank! I certainly do!"

"I promise I won't do it again, Carol. I'd swear on a Bible if I could find one anywhere in this town."

"I don't like when you joke that way, Frank. Someone could hear you."

"Okay, I'll try not to," Werner mocked in a loud voice, looking up at the ceiling as if speaking into a listening device. "But enough about me, Carol. Why on earth are you still up at two a.m.? Your rounds start at seven, for heaven's sake."

"I couldn't sleep. Squatters got into the building again. They broke into Mrs. Leibowitz's apartment and tried all the doors on the second and third floors before somebody called in the block watch."

"How did they manage getting past Harriet? She's like the dragon outside the castle's gate. She would have had the police here in a minute."

"Harriet was out," Carol answered with anxious eyes. "Mrs. Leibowitz took refuge with a neighbor and they got on the phone till they found someone who would help. Frank, I'm worried. It's not just the squatters. I received another letter from the Housing Authority today. They want to take measurements of the apartment."

"Okay, I understand why that might spook you, Carol. But we've been through this before. You have an ironclad exemption. If you get notice that the BHA wants to move more people in with you, the hospital will fix it, just as they would do for any doctor on staff. It's a condition of your employment."

"You keep telling me that, Frank," Carol objected, "but Harriet makes it her business to be very well informed about goings-on at the Housing Authority, and she says changes are coming. This new FEMA campaign to find housing for the refugees is putting the Housing Authority under enormous pressure. Old exemptions aren't being renewed and they're even thinking of allotting fewer square meters per person."

Werner stepped away from the window to the sideboard where he kept the liquor. He poured a few ounces of dark rum from a decanter into a sherry glass and took a sip.

"I wouldn't take Harriet's word at face value on this. I seem to recall that she has some relatives among those refugees. But whatever is going on, it can wait till morning. You need some sleep."

"And you? Aren't you coming to bed?"

"Yes, in a few minutes. Why?" Werner replied.

"Because it's Wednesday and you never drink during the week. Is something wrong? You had an odd look when you came in."

"Nothing's wrong. I just need a few minutes at my desk before I join you. I have an early morning tomorrow, too."

"All right. But don't take forever," she answered with a come-hither smile.

Frank Werner turned off the lights in the living room and walked down the hall to the small study where he kept his books and papers. He reached into his desk for a bound notebook and opened it on the desk. Its pages were filled with names and addresses, listed alphabetically, along with notes about each person.

He turned page after page between sips of rum, pausing occasionally to jot a word or a name on an index card. When the card was filled, he crossed out a third of the entries and wrote another list on a new card.

This card he took to the window and studied its contents while finishing the rum. When the glass was empty, he tore the card into small pieces and stuffed them into the glass. Then he turned out the light, brought the glass with him into the bathroom, and closed the door.

CHAPTER 3

Flashback: Friday, March 30, 2029
Brookline, Massachusetts

Frank Werner stood at the bar and, like a stage magician, removed the bottle of vintage California champagne from the ice bucket, dried it with a starched linen napkin and displayed the label to Carol and her guests who were seated on sofas in the center of the living room.

"Domain Chandon Brut 2012, the last of the best."

He uncorked the bottle and poured it into six fluted glasses and handed them to the guests while Linda's music system played a song by one of those gravel-throated French singers of the Fifties like Aznavour or Montand. Though Carol denied it, Werner considered it a throwback to Carol's childhood in French-speaking East Beirut. On occasion, when he wasn't around, she even played the occasional ballad by Fairouz.

Carol and her close friend Linda Holt received the first two glasses of champagne, followed by Mary Steen, the wife of Carol's longtime coworker at the hospital, Paul Steen, and Linda's escort for the evening, John Worthington, a retired professor.

Linda, a semi-retired anesthesiologist and pain specialist in her early seventies, had been a friend since Carol was a junior resident at Children's Hospital. Though nearly fifteen years Carol's senior, Linda seemed to play the role of an older sister to her. After losing her husband to a bicycle accident years before the Events, Linda had continued to practice medicine. Now she maintained a part-time schedule at the Boston Medical Center while also working several days a week at a hospice in Chestnut Hill supervising the dispensing of painkillers to the terminally ill. Despite the grim nature of her work, Werner found that Linda could always be relied upon for a warm smile, a kind remark, and a sympathetic ear. She was the most youthful seventy-something he knew.

Werner had met the Steens only twice before, and had only a superficial acquaintance with Professor Worthington after a couple of theater performances the man had attended as Linda's escort.

Tonight was ostensibly a dinner to celebrate Carol's fifty-eighth birthday, but it also marked the one-year anniversary of the day when Carol had invited Werner to move in with her. Not long afterward, Werner learned that Linda had wielded an important influence in Carol's decision. Though this alone would have been sufficient to ensure Werner's enduring loyalty, he had also come to know Linda as a delightful personality: a most educated and cultured person, and someone whose judgment and intuition were rarely off the mark.

When at last Professor Worthington received his glass, Werner raised his glass for a toast.

"Wait a moment, Frank," Carol interrupted. "We really should pour a glass for Harriet. I'll call her in from the kitchen. Is any left in the bottle or might we open another?"

Werner lowered his glass and nodded indulgently.

"Of course we can open a second, dear. I planned to open one in a moment."

He replaced his glass on the sideboard and removed the second bottle of champagne from its ice.

A few seconds later, Carol reappeared with Harriet Waterman in tow. Though Harriet was only three years younger than Carol, her life had taken a far different path. Born near Camden on the coast of Maine, she had married a lobsterman the summer of her high school graduation and had given birth to five children, of whom only two lived.

The Maine Coast had been hit by disaster after disaster over two decades, including hurricanes, a tsunami, recurrent flooding, and massive forest fires, and had shared in the country's pandemics, famines, and civil unrest as well. Harriet came from one of Maine's largest clans and, when the troubles arrived Down East, her relatives called upon her early and often for help. Until her husband died in the Saigon Flu epidemic, she had been able to help on many occasions, taking in a family for a week or a month while they found work somewhere further south. But without her husband's earnings, she had been obliged to seek hourly work from her tenants as a housekeeper or cook.

Werner found a seventh flute glass, though not a matching one, and filled it for Harriet. Her eyes widened with delight, as sparkling wines had become a rarity even among those for whom it had been a casual pleasure before the Events.

"We give thanks to Carol for enriching our lives this past year and may she have her best year ever in 2029. Carol, we wish you a very happy birthday!"

To that, the seven raised their glasses and drank.

Carol immediately set about opening the presents arranged before her on the coffee table. From Linda she received a crystal pendant, from the Steens a framed print, from the Professor a book of poetry, and from Werner an embossed antique silver bowl with hand chasing.

When the presents had been admired by all, Werner doled out the remaining wine and found a seat beside Carol on the sofa.

Professor Worthington thanked Werner for the champagne, then asked where he had found the silver bowl.

"Cambridge," was Werner's response. "A woman lost her house in the flood and was selling some of the valuables she was able to rescue. She had a beautiful silver collection. Most of the pieces were beyond my budget, but this one was reasonable enough."

"My wife kept heaps of silver in her day," Worthington mused. "Her housekeeper spent a day each week polishing it. I suppose it must be a glut on the market these days, no? Was she offering it through a dealer?"

"Not at all, Professor. I met the seller at a flea market. I make the rounds several times a week. It's where I find leads for much of the pre-Events wine and spirits that I trade in."

"Really?" the older man questioned. "And you find it safe to do business at flea markets? I've read that those places are teeming with thieves and pickpockets and dishonest characters selling counterfeit goods."

"Not so at all. Most of the sellers are ordinary people," Werner declared. "Some them are former shopkeepers who can't afford rent anymore and continue to buy and sell in the open air. Others come only when they need to sell something to keep food on the table. These people aren't stupid, Professor. They set up in fenced-off areas like schoolyards and vacant lots and arrange for their own security. Some even bring armed guards if they're handling a lot of cash. It's the way people have traded across most of the world since time began."

"I do see your point, Frank," Worthington conceded. "It's been so long since I've traveled outside the country that I've nearly forgotten all those charming bazaars and marchés and mercados my wife used to drag me through."

"Frank," Mary Steen chimed in, "Carol mentioned that you spent some years out West before returning to Boston. I'm so curious what it's like now. Since the government declared so much of it a Restricted Zone during the insurgency, it seems there's hardly a mention of it in the media."

"Frank was a government contractor out there, Mary," her husband interrupted with a nervous smile. "Not everyone knows this, but anyone who works in a Restricted Zone is required to sign a nondisclosure agreement. So Frank may not be at liberty to talk to us about it."

All eyes turned to Werner.

"Oh, no, it's perfectly all right," Werner replied genially, emptying his glass. "Most of what I can tell you about the west dates back to before the Events. Our family moved to Salt Lake from New York in 2006 and came to Boston in 2016, after things had already gone downhill."

"But I understand you went back to Utah more recently and returned a year or so before you and Carol met," Mary Steen persisted. "Can you share your impressions of what's changed out there? Mary said something about your volunteering to go back to help rebuild. It sounds fascinating!"

Werner smiled weakly at Mary Steen. She had no idea what she was asking. If he answered truthfully, she would never believe it. And if she did believe it, it would traumatize her. So he gave her a short version of the answer he gave to everyone. To avoid tripping himself up with a tangled web of lies, he had decided long ago to craft a cover story that was as close to the truth as he dared get.

"I went back to Utah in 2022, during some very difficult times, as we all know. I spent a little more than two years in Utah, at a remote site working on reconstruction and recycling of war-torn areas, mostly in the mountains. Then I was transferred to the Yukon for just over a year where I worked at a mining site before being recalled to Utah. When my commitment came to an end, I decided to come back East.

"Not a very exciting story, really. Utah is as physically beautiful as ever, I can happily report, and the people there are determined to lift themselves up by their bootstraps. I may even go back there one day."

Carol cast a concerned look in Werner's direction. He sensed that Linda saw it and knew what was going on in Carol's head. The topic of Frank's possible return to Utah had become a sore spot between him and Carol. He had asked her more than once to consider moving back to Salt Lake City with him. A board-certified oncologist with her credentials could walk into any hospital in Utah and be offered a position on the spot with a generous housing allowance, no questions asked.

But for Carol, this was far too big a change. Though she had visited Salt Lake City for conventions, skied at Alta and Snowbird and Deer Valley, and visited the national parks at Bryce Canyon, Zion, and the Grand Canyon's north rim, Utah was not a place where people like her could possibly consider settling down to live. Her job, her friends, her apartment, and her culture were all in Boston. That she had been born in Beirut, Lebanon, and did not come to the United States until she was seven years old was beside the point. She was a product of Winsor, Harvard, Tufts Medical School and Children's Hospital Boston and, having earned her slot in Boston, could not conceive of giving it up.

Werner's arguments in favor of a move had failed to score many points. For one, he loved Utah for its mountains, its wide-open spaces, its youthful population, its dry sunny climate, and the opportunity to be physically active despite his advancing age. He was confident that he could make a living there connected to wine or spirits, whether as a bootlegger, bar owner, or perhaps someday as a legally sanctioned distributor, now that the Mormon-inspired laws restricting the sale of alcohol in the state were no longer in effect.

Werner also possessed a residence permit for Utah. In fact, his residence permit was not valid anywhere else but Utah. He had neither a travel permit nor a residence permit for Boston and would almost certainly never be issued one. He had come east only to search for his missing daughter and had intended to return in a few weeks or months.

Sadly, however, the search for his daughter had taken longer than he had imagined. He had come across tantalizing hearsay from former classmates and friends that she had traveled or moved or emigrated but never a phone number or an address. He knew that the longer he stayed in Boston, the greater the risk of exposure and possible re-arrest. And unless he found her soon, he planned to leave the East and continue his search from Utah.

"You mean go back as a private citizen?" Paul Steen interjected. "But isn't Utah still a Restricted Zone? I thought that you had to be out there on military or security business before they'd even sell you a ticket."

"In most instances, I suppose," Werner admitted. "But I expect I could find a way. At the moment, it's just something I like to think about."

"You know, I wish I knew how half the people in the shantytowns around here got their residence permits," Harriet Waterman remarked, emboldened by her second flute of champagne. "Most of the homeless you see around here aren't from Boston, that's for darned sure. Half of them are down from Canada. Especially the squatters. Why, I heard them speaking French Canuck to each other when they demonstrated outside the building last week."

"You've had trouble with squatters here in Brookline?" Mary Steen asked in a concerned voice. "Cambridge has been swarming with them. Now they've taken over some of the more habitable buildings in the flooded neighborhoods along the Charles. I'm told they're even moving into some transitional neighborhoods. The police don't seem able to do anything to stop them."

"The police look the other way, ma'am," Harriet replied knowingly. "If they knock heads, they get in trouble with the radicals on the City Council. To tell the truth, it wouldn't surprise me if somebody was getting paid off from this. What I hear is that, when a squatter gang takes over a building, they charge rents to the poor people they bring in to live here. That's how they can afford to bribe the police and the crooked politicians."

"That's so interesting," Mary Steen continued respectfully. "I read in the Herald this morning that the squatters are a major reason for this new FEMA relocation project. Unless FEMA and the Housing Authority can come up with some way to house all these refugees, we could be facing housing riots like the ones in Philadelphia and Cleveland."

"Well, they'll need to break ground soon if they're going to build enough units for all of the people who need them," the Professor observed. "The summers around here aren't as long as they used to be. FEMA may have to bring in tents they way they did after Hurricane Michele."

"That's what the Mayor wants, but FEMA says they've run out of tents and don't have money for more. What they want is for the Housing Authority to crack down on exempt and grandfathered leases so they can cram more people into the buildings they've got. Can you believe them measuring our apartments and telling us how many square meters we're entitled to have and bringing in strangers to live with us if they think we have too much space? Over my dead body!"

With that, Harriet looked up and saw Carol Dodge tidying up the glasses on the coffee table.

"Oh, the dessert! I nearly forgot about it!" "Never mind, don't you worry, Mrs. Dodge, I'll start the coffee and bring it out with the cake. Anyone prefer tea?"

She saw no takers and retreated hastily to the kitchen with Mary Steen following behind.

Paul Steen took the opportunity to consult Carol on a medical question and the Professor excused himself to find the bathroom.

Linda Holt left the sofa across from Werner and took a seat beside him.

"Frank, you mentioned last week that you were ready to have me do a reading for you. If Carol has no objection to our being away for a few minutes, would this be a good time?"

Werner was taken by surprise, but since he had indeed made such a request, he assented. Linda spoke a few words softly into Carol's ear and led the way to the den. There she wasted no time clearing the desktop and seating herself behind the desk. She motioned for Werner to pull up a chair on the opposite side of the desk.

"Since we only have ten minutes or so, there will be no time for formalities. I trust Carol has told you a bit about how I work. I am what some people call an intuitive. When I lay out the tarot cards, I get mental impressions related to the questions that have been asked. Sometimes they take the form of pictures, or voices or words on a page, or even smells or feelings. I do my best to make sense of them and convey them to you in a way that provides useful guidance. Am I making myself clear?"

Werner nodded.

"Good. Then what are the questions you would like answered?"

"Wow, Linda, you caught me a bit off guard. I suppose the biggest question is whether you can tell me anything about where my daughter Marie might be. I do believe she's still alive, but my best guess is that she emigrated three or four years ago. That means she could be anywhere. And related to that, am I doing the right thing by staying in Boston looking for leads to her? Then last, in my heart I feel as if my place is in Utah. And I believe I'm ready to go back now. But Carol doesn't want to leave Boston, and I don't want to hurt her by leaving. At this point I feel like something has to give, so where do I go from here?"

Linda Holt closed her eyes, lowered her head as if in prayer, and set the tarot deck in front of Werner.

"Cut the deck, shuffle it thoroughly, and put it back face down on the desk," she told him.

He did as she said. Then Linda dealt the cards in rapid succession, laying them in rows and pausing only occasionally to turn them over or arrange them in groups. When she finished, though nearly all were face up, Werner could discern no meaningful pattern. Nor did he know what any of the tarot images signified.

"I am receiving some very distinct impressions," Linda began. "First, someone from your past will be coming back into your life, bringing important unresolved issues to the fore. The nature of these issues is not being revealed to me, but I get a very clear sense that you will recognize this person and will understand what the issues will mean for you.

"Next, I am picking up the presence of three females, one of them a mature woman, a mother perhaps, and two of them younger, perhaps the woman's daughters. The woman and the older daughter have passed to the other side. The younger daughter is still on this plane, but further information is being withheld from me. The message is coming through that, before you can learn more about your daughter's situation, there is some business here in Boston that you are required to complete. The same blockage applies to communication from the two women who have passed over. They are asking to come through but something is blocking them until certain tasks are underway."

Werner sat alert in his straight-backed wooden chair, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.

"Can you describe the blockage in more detail?" he asked. "Is there something I'm doing wrong?"

"No, that's not it," Linda replied, still in reverie. "The forces at work here are powerful, but not unkind. I sense that they may be your spirit guides, the team representing you, so to speak, on the other side. They are quite firm about this. Their point is that you have some duty so important that it must come even before your family. It involves others who have already made a great sacrifice for a cause that you share with them, a cause that reaches far into the past and extends into the future. At some level, Frank, I believe you have already chosen this role as well as the duty that comes with it."

Linda Holt opened her eyes and gave Werner an expectant smile.

"After something like that, Frank, you must have questions. Please go ahead."

"I don't know where to begin. But, for starters, did you really get all that from the cards?"

"Not all of it, of course, but everything that came through is reflected quite clearly in the cards. There is no mistaking it, Frank. I don't recall ever having so many big cards come up in one reading as consistently as they did in yours. Something big is about to happen in your life. And when it does, everything is going to change for you."

Before Frank could answer, the Professor opened the door and poked his head into the room.

"I've been asked to summon you two to the next room," he announced with a knowing smile. "The candles are about to be lit on a perfectly beautiful chocolate cake and I suppose we'll all be expected to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ before any of us will be permitted to eat."

CHAPTER 4

Thursday, April 12, 2029,
Boston

Frank Werner stepped off the commuter train at Concord Station. It was just after three in the afternoon and the dense rows of bicycle racks were still full. Werner saw some interesting ones, too, bikes that looked as if they had stood neglected in garages and basements for years before being pressed into service. What with gasoline rationing, ever-steeper road taxes, prohibitive tariffs on imported cars, and waiting lists for new Government Motors cars, only the wealthiest of commuters and privileged government officials whose jobs included the perquisite of an official car still drove to work in the city.

The last time Werner had set foot in the town of Concord had been nearly seven years before, on the occasion of his older daughter's graduation from Concord Academy, a chilly late May morning when parents and students alternated between joy at graduating from secondary school and mourning the imminent death of their beloved institution.

Two years earlier, the President-for-Life had announced his New Education Plan, which called for the assimilation of all private educational institutions above the kindergarten level into the public educational system within two years. By then, the ranks of private secondary schools had already been reduced severely by attrition, owing to the dwindling supply of parents who could afford what amounted to an extra four years of college tuition during a time of wage controls, soaring taxes, and devastated balance sheets. And despite the hand wringing in intellectual circles across the land over the abolition of private education, the opponents of the President's new plan could muster little sympathy to preserve what most Americans considered an archaic privilege of the rich.

Werner also remembered his very first visit to Concord, when he and his wife had taken their older daughter, Justine, for her pre-admission tour and interview at the Academy. To Werner, the town seemed the embodiment of early American ideals and traditions. Within a few square miles were the Concord North Bridge, where the revolutionaries had fired the "shot heard around the world," Ralph Waldo Emerson's house, Thoreau's Walden Pond, Louisa May Alcott's Orchard House, the Old Manse and many other lesser monuments to the colonial era and the seminal influence of Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, the Alcotts, and their intellectual heirs.

The natural beauty of the town and its surrounding countryside had been carefully preserved so that it was not difficult at times to imagine having stepped through a time portal into a bygone era. All this was possible because of the remarkable wealth that had been accumulated over nearly four centuries by the residents of Concord and their ancestors. Its charm and history, meticulously preserved across many generations, had made Concord one of the most desirable addresses in Greater Boston for the uncommon few who could afford to live there.

Werner crossed the street and continued past the row of shops that served Concord's rail commuters until he reached Middle Street and turned right. He consulted his notebook and went on until he found 50 Middle Street, an imposing three-story Federal-style mansion painted white with black shutters and trim. He knocked and heard a woman's voice answer from not far away. A moment later Nancy Widmer opened the door wearing a beige wool suit with an open jacket trimmed with brass buttons. Though she was preparing to relocate, clearly he had not interrupted her while packing her dishes and chinaware.

Nancy invited Werner inside and within moments he noticed that the dining room table had recently hosted a luncheon for ten. Four empty wine bottles stood guard over the remains of the meal, and he noticed at least five or six empty martini glasses. Displayed on the sideboard was what he guessed to be her farewell present, a panoramic oil painting depicting a row of seven women seated in a formal drawing room, each seen only from the waist down and each with her respective terrier seated on her lap or at her feet. Werner could not help but smile at the sheer joy reflected in the expressions of the well-tended canines.

"Oh, don't mind the mess," Nancy remarked casually as she led him back to the kitchen. "They stayed so long there was no time to tidy up."

Nancy was an attractive and unusually energetic seventy-three-year-old, a woman who had formed countless friendships and acquaintances over the years, not only in Concord, but among Boston society at large and at her summer home on Islesboro, off the coast of Maine. She took enormous pleasure in entertaining her friends, visiting them at their homes and socializing with them at her downtown club. Since her husband's death three years earlier, she had slashed her monthly expenses to the bone in order to maintain the house on Middle Street as long she could. Now, with house sale complete and the move to her daughter's house in Western Massachusetts two weeks away, Nancy Widmer seemed determined not to reveal even a trace of sadness or disappointment.

"No dogs today?" Werner asked her, surprised at the absence of barking from her twin Corgis.

"They're spending the day with their doggie friends on Sudbury Street. But never mind the dogs. Come over here, Frank. I want to show you something."

He followed her into the pantry. There he saw her slide the shelves into a recess to reveal a heavy steel door that led down a flight of stairs into a cellar.

"This house was built in 1820," she declared. "It had a small root cellar that was later enlarged and used until after the Civil War to hide escaped slaves traveling north along the Underground Railroad."

She pointed proudly to a small framed map showing the routes taken by escaped slaves moving north to safety, a faded print showing ragged slaves on the run, and a laminated plaque with the lyrics of "Follow the Drinking Gourd," a Negro Spiritual tune popular at the time.

"Did you know that the slaves used the stars for navigation in those days, Frank? They watched for the Big Dipper because it points to the North Star. I remember learning that song in grammar school. We all learned it. And the slaves probably sang it right here in this house!"

Werner read the first stanza and was surprised when it sent a chill up his spine:

When the sun comes back,

And the first quail calls,

Follow the drinking gourd,

For the old man is waiting

For to carry you to freedom

If you follow the drinking gourd.

For the briefest moment an image of the Yukon tundra flashed through his head. His 2,000-mile trek from Kamas, Utah, to the Canol Road in the Yukon Territory had been the polar opposite of what the slaves had experienced. Unlike the Negro slaves marching toward freedom, with every step he had marched further away from freedom toward forced labor and premature death. More than a century and a half after the Emancipation Proclamation, he still could not comprehend how the Corrective Labor Administration had come into being and expanded so rapidly within a few years. And the knowledge that prisoners like him were still trudging in chains to their deaths in corrective labor camps throughout Alaska, the Yukon, and the Northwest Territories was sometimes more than he could endure.

Nancy Widmer waited for Werner to read the lyrics, then led the way into the cellar. Nancy's late husband must have paid a small fortune to the contractor who had converted the room into a temperature and humidity-controlled wine cellar. Along the far wall were floor-to-ceiling redwood wine racks, in both bin and column format, while to either side custom-built shelf units held sealed cases of wines as well as individual liquor bottles stored upright. And in the center of the room stood an antique walnut table for wine tasting and a pallet for stacking cases of spirits.

Werner moved closer to the shelves and inspected the loose bottles. To his delight, he found rarities that most social drinkers did not know, but that to cocktail enthusiasts were worth their weight in gold: applejack, anisette, Brazilian cachaça, Campari, crème de cassis, Haitian rhum agricole, Kentucky rye, Lillet, maraschino liqueur, French vermouth and others, along with several spare bottles each of Angostura, Peychaud's and orange bitters. He duly recorded the name and quantity of each on his inventory sheet.

Nancy noticed his intense concentration and soon returned to the kitchen to let him conduct his inventory undisturbed.

Next Werner turned his attention to the sealed cases of spirits: three full cases each of Crown Royal, Johnny Walker Black, Maker's Mark, Mount Gay, Absolut, and Beefeater, plus partials. Obviously Mr. Widmer was a man who entertained frequently, which was hardly unusual for a partner in an investment management company. Judging by the quantities, Mr. Widmer had also been sufficiently canny to collect his supplies before they became scarce. Werner silently blessed the late Mr. Widmer, for it was just this sort of far-sighted hoarder who enabled Frank Werner to make his living.

Surveying the wines, Werner found only a few cases that would fetch a respectable price. These were mainly lesser-growth red Bordeaux and two cases of California reserve cabernets. Nancy had warned him in advance that she had already consumed or given to her daughter most of her husband's better wines, and among the assorted bottles remaining in the racks, nearly all were everyday table wines. Being of pre-Unionist vintage, however, they were still quite saleable. Overall, the wines had been well worth the trip. But it was apparent that Werner's greatest fortune in coming to visit today had been that neither Nancy nor her daughter touched spirits.

When he had completed the inventory, Werner carried his clipboard upstairs to the kitchen, where he found Nancy Widmer preparing a pot of tea. She invited him to sit at the butcher's block table in the center of the room. When she had poured the tea he began.

"Your husband seems to have had excellent taste, Nancy. You should be pleased that you were able to enjoy the best of what he had put away before your move to Northampton. As for what's left of the wine, I can fetch a decent price for the five full cases, and I can sell whatever you want to leave me of the rest, but I'm afraid those aren't worth much.

"Overall, the market for wines has not been healthy this year. Part of the problem has been the Unionist propaganda vilifying the Moneymen and their conspicuous consumption. I wish your wines would bring more, but I must defer to the market."

Werner removed from the clipboard a summary sheet of his appraisal, pointing out to Nancy the number of bottles of each wine or spirit and indicating his offer per bottle. He used a pocket calculator to verify the total and then underlined the number at the bottom of the summary sheet.

"This offer remains firm for one week."

Nancy Widmer replaced her cup in its saucer, looked hard at the number and sighed.

Werner waited for her to speak before continuing.

"Unfortunately, Nancy, the sort of people today who have a taste for fine drinking and the money to pay for it want only the labels that everyone else has heard of. They won't shell out big money to drink obscure wines in private, regardless of quality or value. On the other hand, they'll gladly pay top dollar for a label that will impress their friends and clients."

Werner paused again to observe Nancy Widmer's reaction. Though she was old and widowed and in some ways vulnerable, she was nobody's fool. She had spent a lifetime buying and selling all sorts of things in all kinds of markets and remained both well informed and well connected. Not for a moment did he sell short her ability to see through his puffery. She might have heard, for example, that the Unionist elite and their New Class enablers had recently begun to fuel a renewed boom in fine wines and spirits. What she could not know, since she was not a professional in the field, was that that the supply of famous labels has dwindled to the point where even formerly unfashionable wines and liquors now fetched prices that sometimes exceeded pre-Unionist levels.

Nancy Widmer remained silent. This was not going quite as smoothly as he had expected.

"I'm very sorry if the total wasn't what you expected," he summed up. "But here's what I can do for you. I'm willing to take up the price on all the spirits by 10 percent. That will bring the new total north of five thousand New Dollars. Would that be acceptable?"

Nancy Widmer appeared to breathe a sigh of relief as she nodded her assent.

"Yes, I'll accept that," she declared, putting on a brave smile–or possibly faking it.

"Very good," Werner concluded. "Then we have a deal. I'll bring the money on Saturday."

"Excellent. Where I come from, that calls for celebration. May I freshen up your cup of tea, Frank?"

"Certainly," he replied.

But instead of reaching for the teapot, Nancy Widmer rose and opened a cabinet near the stove from which she took a bottle of Mount Gay Extra Old rum. She poured an ounce or two in each of their cups and added tea until both were filled.

"I suppose you know this, Frank, you being educated at Exeter and all. But back in colonial days, coastal New England practically ran on rum. A few in the interior made whiskey from their corn and rye, but true New Englanders never considered whiskey fit for human consumption. So let's celebrate the end of one New England tradition with another…"

She raised her cup and drank deeply. Werner did the same. With their business behind them, Nancy asked Werner to tell her more about his career and what path had led him to Boston. Werner gave her a capsule version of his life story, starting with his birth in Grosse Pointe, boarding school at Exeter, back to Ohio for college, four years with the U.S. Government in the Middle East, then an MBA, a new job in New York, marriage, children, and a succession of other jobs that eventually brought him to Boston.

"When we moved here from Salt Lake City in '16," he explained, "we didn't even look at houses in Concord. When the girls started going to Concord Academy, we wished we had. But by then, the economy had crashed and the value of our house had plummeted and we just couldn't afford to move. Too bad we didn't, because it seems to me that Concord managed to remain untouched by the crisis longer than many other parts of Boston. Every time I came here in those days, it was a sort of haven to me."

Nancy poured more rum into his cup as he spoke, then added some to her own.

As he knew she had been an Establishment Liberal and a Unionist throughout the Events, he was careful not to turn the conversation toward politics.

But suddenly, to his surprise, Nancy Widmer leaned across the table and addressed him in a low voice.

"Tell me, Frank, how could it have come to this? With a President-for-Life, no less! How on earth could we have supported these scoundrels without having any idea where they were taking us? And all the while thinking we were doing everything right!"

"Don't ask me, Nancy," Werner replied with a bland smile. "I was still in Utah back in 2008 when the problems started. In those days I think I favored secession."

Werner gave a good-natured laugh. Nancy Widmer looked at him oddly, as if she had never heard someone utter such a word out loud.

"I'm not familiar with Utah, Frank, but for us in Concord, the Unionist side was the only conceivable choice at the time. That's simply how it was. But, honestly, how could we have known? How could any of us have known what kind of people were running the Unionist Party and what they intended to do when they had power? We thought they were Progressives like us. So we took them at their word. And now they turn out to have been bloody Bolsheviks!

"And my husband helped put them in power!" she continued. "Ron and his partners contributed millions over the years to the Democrats and the Unionists. But when they came into power, we lost everything. And I don't mean just money. When Ron was diagnosed with heart disease, the doctors told him it was treatable. But when the time came to schedule his operation, the Health Service disapproved it. Too old! After a lifetime of paying taxes! But never mind; we thought we'd do it privately. Except that no surgeon would treat him outside the system for fear of losing his license. And by then, no exit visas were being issued for treatment abroad. So when the heart attack finally came, they gave him sedation to ease his pain, and then more sedation, and more, till he died. ‘Terminal sedation‚ is what they call it. What I call it is euthanasia. And it's why I will never ever set foot in a hospital again."

Nancy Widmer's eyes welled with tears but her jaw was firmly set and she sat perfectly erect in her spindly Windsor chair. At that moment Werner sensed in her an inner strength that had been handed down from New England ancestors who had cleared the rocky land, fought the Indians, overturned British rule, and authored the great enduring experiment called America.

"Do you have grandchildren, Nancy?" he asked to steer the conversation in a more positive direction.

"Oh, yes," she responded, recovering quickly. "Both are out of college now and working as teachers till they can find something else. But I was very lucky to have them near me for a few years while they were boarders at the Academy."

"Really? What years did they graduate?"

"Oh, that would have been six or seven years ago."

"Then they probably didn't know our girls," Werner replied. "Our older one graduated five years ago, and the younger one left a year later when the state took over."

"I believe that's when Monica Cogan was at the Academy. She was in the very last graduating class. Her parents were very dear friends of mine. In fact, Monica came back this year to teach there. Of course, it's not a boarding school any longer. The state has turned it into a completely different sort of place, as you probably know."

"Would you happen to know how I might get in touch with Monica?" Werner inquired. "I believe our daughter Marie may have known her. Did you say she's a teacher at the Academy?"

"Well, not a teacher, exactly. More like a trainer or organizer of some kind. I don't have a number or an address for her just yet. Though I'm sure that if you go to the old admissions office on Main Street, someone can tell you how to find her. But brace yourself. It's not the old Academy. You're not going to like it."

By now, Nancy Widmer had regained her composure and seemed in a hurry to get on with her day. She made a show of finishing her tea and Werner quickly followed suit.

"Thank you so much for inviting me, Nancy," Werner said, rising from his chair. "If there's anything else I can do to help…"

As if suddenly remembering something very important, she waved distractedly for him to sit.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. It's Ron's guns. When they were outlawed, I know for a fact that he didn't turn them over to the police, so it's very likely that there's still a rifle or a shotgun lying around. Do you suppose that any of your clients might be in the market for a fine shotgun or hunting rifle? I'm sure they'll be of very high quality. Ron bought only the best."

Werner listened quietly and surmised that the guns were no afterthought. Nancy had doubtless been sizing him up to see if she could trust him.

"I'm sorry, Nancy, but illegal weapons are a bit out of my line," he said with a stern expression. "Bootlegging is enough risk for me. But I understand the situation you're in and appreciate your need to, well, dispose of these things safely. I believe your husband was wise not to surrender his weapons to the authorities. That's a very dangerous thing to do."

"What would you suggest, then?"

"Nancy, strictly as a friend, I would be willing to dispose of them for you, provided that it's just a rifle or a shotgun or two."

"Thank you ever so much, Frank. But what if I happen to find more? I remember he brought back a pistol from Vietnam and used to keep it in his study. Could you dispose of that, too, if I come across it?"

Werner laughed.

"Well, I suppose so, if it doesn't end up being an arsenal. And I have one condition. For your safety and mine, Nancy, and the safety of your family, you must promise me that if anyone asks about your husband's weapons, all you recall is that they were stolen years ago from his car while he was on a hunting trip. Can you do that?"

"Certainly," she answered without hesitation. "I appreciate your concern for us and would never betray your confidence."

"All right, then. If you find anything, here's what I'd like you to do. If it's a long gun, roll it up in an old rug and tie the ends with twine. If it's a handgun or ammunition, pack it in a cardboard box and pack the box inside a liquor carton. I'll take a look at them on Saturday and decide what to do then."

"What time do you expect to arrive?"

"Before noon, I expect," he replied. "I have another appointment that morning."

Nancy Widmer smiled as if struck by a humorous thought.

"Funny, it seems as if everything Ron once loved is against the law. Guns, whiskey, cigars, fast cars, making money, and probably half the books in our library. I don't suppose there's a black market in banned books, is there?"

Frank Werner smiled, wished Nancy goodbye, and let her lead him out to the foyer.

****

Werner turned north and emerged minutes later onto Main Street opposite what had for over 100 years been Concord Academy. As he scanned the full frontage of the campus along Main, the first thing that caught his eye was the vacant lot where two of three dormitories had stood to the west of Aloian Circle. From what remained, it appeared that the dormitories had been destroyed by fire.

The surviving buildings appeared little changed except for the unaccustomed sight of some broken windows and plenty of peeling paint. The hedges were untrimmed and the lawn appeared not to have been mowed since the snows melted, with tall unsightly weeds growing everywhere. The wooden sign hanging from a crossbar outside the former admissions office at Aloian House now read "Concord Center for Social Organization, Massachusetts Department of Education."

Inside the building, the colorful chintz sofas and cozy stuffed chairs had been replaced by folding metal seats while hardwood floors once overlaid with oriental rugs were now tiled with vinyl. Where framed photos and prints illustrating the Academy's history had once covered the walls, cheaply mounted political posters hung in their places. Many of the posters, created in the style that wags had dubbed as Unionist Realism, featured the stylized acorn that had become the motif of the social organization wing of the Unionist Party.

Werner greeted the receptionist, a severe-looking young woman dressed in a black fleece pantsuit that appeared only slightly more presentable than a sweat suit.

The sign above her desk read "Cadres Indoctrination Center."

She examined him closely.

"I wonder if you could help me," he began, ignoring her dour expression. "I'm looking for an instructor here by the name of Monica Cogan. Could you tell me how I might get in touch with her?"

"She's probably leading a training session," the receptionist replied. "A break is coming in ten minutes. Try looking at the commissary."

"Would the commissary be the same thing as the former dining hall?"

She looked askance at him.

"More or less," she said with a sour expression that said, ‘Watch yourself, old man. This isn't a private school for rich kids and you're not in Kansas anymore.’

He crossed the Campus Quad to what had formerly been the Student-Faculty Center and entered. The dining hall was nearly vacant, with most of the metal and plastic picnic tables stacked along one wall. Fifteen or twenty young men and women, none appearing over thirty, drank coffee and ate cake doughnuts at a bank of four tables closest to the cafeteria line.

Werner bought a cup of coffee and a glazed doughnut and asked the girl at the cash register to point out Monica Cogan. The girl pointed to a tall slender woman in her early twenties with short blonde hair who had the look of a former athlete gone to seed. Werner took a seat across the picnic bench from her and mentioned that Nancy Widmer had suggested he look her up. He introduced himself as the father of two recent alumnae who had attended CA around the same time as she.

The woman brightened at this and for a flashing moment Werner imagined seeing her as an enthusiastic, intellectually precocious seventeen-year-old private school day student.

"Oh, I totally remember Marie," she responded. "We took English together in tenth grade. I loved listening to her read her stories; she was a really good writer. What is she doing now?"

"I don't know," Werner answered point blank. "My wife and my older daughter died in the Saigon flu pandemic during Marie's last year at CA. I was working out West and we lost contact in all the confusion. It's possible she emigrated, but she didn't leave much of a trail. I thought maybe you or some of your classmates might have heard from Marie."

Monica shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Werner, but I haven't heard from Marie since we graduated."

"Before the Events, Monica, I remember that kids used to stay in touch by computer with Web sites like Facebook and MySpace. Has there been anything to replace that? Or might there be some other way to get in touch with students from those days who knew Marie?"

Monica's expression darkened.

"The days when every six-year-old had his own computer, cell phone, and iPod are history, Mr. Werner. And networking with émigrés would not be a very smart thing to do these days, if you know what I mean."

She looked to either side as if to detect whether anyone had been listening. Suddenly, Werner realized that Monica might be on thin political ice at her old alma mater. She had, after all, been one of those elitist kids who enjoyed a $50,0000-a-year private education. Perhaps her father had been a moneyman. Such a background might not endear her to the other social organizers struggling to level America's social structure and build an egalitarian society.

Werner decided to back off in the hope that Monica might retain enough goodwill to contact him in the event she ever came across news about Marie.

He offered her his business card with the title, "Dealer in Fine Foods and Beverages."

Monica eyed him suspiciously.

"You're not a bootlegger, are you?" she asked in apparent disbelief. "My God, have you really been away that long? Don't you even know what we teach here at this Center?"

"Apparently not. Look, I'm sorry if I…"

He decided against finishing the sentence and rose sheepishly from the bench.

But before he turned to leave he was heartened to see Monica slide his card into her trouser pocket.

****

Werner left the commissary heading east across campus toward Concord's town center. As the day was sunny and warm and he did not need to be back at the Somerset Club until evening, he decided to take an indirect route back to the commuter rail station, walking along Main Street into town, then past the First Parish Church to Emerson's house, and finally turning north past the Colonial Inn to the Old Manse and the historic North Bridge.

Werner was stunned when he saw that both the First Parish Church and the Emerson house had burned down. It seemed inconceivable that the Concord Fire Department, located only a few hundred meters away, could have allowed this to happen, unless… At the thought of a political motive for the fires his mind ceased racing. It was a horrible thought, but it might be true.

While he was at Kamas, the Unionist campaign against religious opposition had escalated to encompass any church that did not unconditionally endorse the Unionist Party's platform. Opponents and fence-sitters, including some Christian and Jewish denominations whose memberships had once been at the liberal end of the spectrum, received threats of prosecution, tax audits, utility cutoffs, bank account freezes, broken windows, and angry demonstrations by Unionist rent-a-mobs. That a few churches might have been torched pour encourager les autres would have been fully consistent with Unionist tactics of the day.

In Werner's view, the destruction of Ralph Waldo Emerson's residence, if it had indeed been by arson, seemed even more egregious than burning Concord's historic church. For the fight between a government and a church was a dispute between living people. Tit-for-tat and overreaching often led to tragedy in such fights. But the dead Emerson led no political party or congregation. What was left of him lived only as ideas and to destroy his monument smacked of an attempt to destroy his memory and stamp out the ideas about freedom, individual dignity, and nonconformism that Emerson had advanced.

With a troubled heart, Werner walked north along the weed-choked town common toward Monument Street. The Colonial Inn, built in the early eighteenth century and operated as a hotel for more than a hundred years, lay vacant, its windows and doors covered by warped sheets of particleboard. The new sign in front declared that the building was under reconstruction and would soon reopen as a public housing unit operated by the Massachusetts Department of Housing. The projected opening date had come and gone two years ago.

When Werner reached the Old Manse he was not surprised to see it boarded up, too. On the positive side, its lawn was freshly mowed and its garden, though unruly, showed signs of recent tending. Werner was pleased that the spirit of Emerson would be allowed to haunt at least one of his former residences, perhaps in company with Hawthorne, another Old Manse resident, or Thoreau, who had planted the property's first garden.

Werner's greatest shock and distress came, however, when he reached the North Bridge, where on April 19, 1775, colonial Minutemen had fired on British redcoats and pursued them all the way back to Boston to score the colonials' first victory of the American revolution. What had until Werner's arrest been part of Minuteman National Historical Park now belonged to the Lexington-Concord National Forest, according to the only sign Werner could find. None of the wooden signs or engraved brass plaques marking the battle remained. It was as if nothing of importance had ever occurred near this quaint bridge over the Concord River. If the Unionists intended to rewrite American history, they knew exactly where to begin.

Werner returned to Monument Street and started back toward town. Upon reaching the Old Manse he noticed a handsome middle-aged man dressed in blue jeans and a flannel shirt digging in a flowerbed not far from the sidewalk. As he approached he thought the man had a familiar look. Since the most likely connection would be the Academy, Werner asked him if he had been associated with the school as a parent or a teacher.

"Both," the man replied with a warm smile, introducing himself as Parker Motley.

A few minutes later Werner discovered that both Marie and Justine had taken English courses from Motley. In response to Werner's many questions, Motley described in detail the final days of Concord Academy and its principal actors, while Werner reciprocated by offering a brief and rather vague account of his work in the West. Werner also disclosed that his wife and daughter Justine had died of the Saigon Flu and that he and Marie had become separated when he was sent West. To Werner's disappointment, Motley had not heard of Marie since she left Concord years earlier.

"How odd that we should meet just now." Werner mused. "Barely an hour ago I spoke to another young woman from Marie's class. She and Marie took English together in tenth grade; perhaps they were your students. Does Monica Cogan ring a bell?"

"Yes, I think I may have taught her," Motley replied.

Werner noted a sudden coolness in Motley's voice and wondered whether he knew something about Monica he was unwilling to share. He decided to change the subject and asked Motley how he might reach other students who could provide leads to Marie.

"Is there still an alumni association somewhere, or a CA historical society, or some other vestige that serves as a gathering place for people associated with the old Academy?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Motley replied. "I'm sure that the alumni records and many of the Academy's historical archives still exist in private hands somewhere but, to my knowledge, there is no public access."

"Why the secrecy?" Werner persisted. "CA was always such a tightly knit community. I can't believe all those people would suddenly go incognito."

"How long have you been away? Four years? Five? Didn't they have a Moneyman Purge where you were?"

Werner knew the term, but hadn't run across many of the purged Moneymen in the camps. Either their numbers were few or they hid themselves well or they never reached the camps in the first place.

"Maybe out west where you were, the Moneymen Purge didn't leave much of an impression," Motley explained. "But in banking centers, like Boston, it devastated the financial sector from top to bottom. I remember it well because the press picked up the Moneymen mantra shortly after the President-for-Life announced his plan to eradicate private education.

"While the Academy was coping with being forced out of business, many of our board members and parents were being arrested and hauled before grand juries, Congressional committees, and every kind of commission that the politicians could conjure up. Graduates of Ivy League universities and elite New England private schools were singled out for special persecution. To stand up and declare yourself a graduate of an Ivy League college or a New England prep school was like declaring yourself a member of the Nazi Party or the Ku Klux Klan a couple of generations ago."

Motley's discomfort was palpable.

"I see what you mean," Werner replied quietly while he thought of a way to change the subject. "I guess a lot happened while I was away."

He spotted the garden and spoke again.

"You're doing a bang-up job with that flower bed," he told Motley. "How is it that you're out here gardening on a weekday afternoon? What does an English teacher do for a living without a school?"

"The same thing I did before, except now I'm a tutor.

I teach in my students' homes. It's against the law to operate a private school so we keep the classes down to six or fewer. And I love it. No faculty meetings, no administration, just pure teaching. It's exactly what Emerson did when he was fresh out of Harvard."

"Do they still let you teach about Emerson?" Werner probed. "I heard somewhere that his books were banned."

"They're not banned in Concord. He's our native son and this is the home of self-reliance and civil disobedience. They can burn his house down but Emerson's memory is alive and well. Well, maybe not in the public schools yet, but one day they'll catch up."

"Are many former CA faculty doing what you're doing?" Werner inquired. "Without faculty housing, I would think many would find it hard to make ends meet."

"Heavens, no," Motley replied. "Very few CA teachers could afford to stay. Concord is still a very expensive place. It's still highly gentrified, though less than before the Events. Our family was able to stay afloat only because I did some screenwriting early in my career and didn't have to rely exclusively on my teaching income. We bought a small farm about a mile out on Monument Street and went into organic gardening as a hobby because we thought it would be good to teach the kids. Little did we know then that we'd need those vegetables and apples and eggs one day to avoid going hungry."

"If you don't mind my asking," Werner asked, returning to his initial question about gardening, "why are you tending the garden here if you garden professionally at home?"

"It's a long story, but it's mainly because I'm on a committee to protect the Old Manse. After Emerson's house and the First Parish Church and Orchard House burned in suspicious fires, a few of us decided to keep watch over the Old Manse so that there would be truthful witnesses if it happened again. The Unionists may remove all the signs and fence it off and even torch it, but we'll bear witness to whatever happens. They can't be allowed to erase the memory of who lived here or the ideas that Emerson, Hawthorne, Thoreau, and the Alcotts gave the world from this special place."

Werner looked at his watch. It was much later than he had planned to stay.

"Say, it's been great seeing you again, Parker," he remarked, reaching out to shake Motley's hand. "How would I find you if I wanted to get in touch."

"We're about a mile further down the road, right past the apple orchard."

"Say, have you ever thought of doing some distilling with your surplus apples?" Werner asked as an afterthought. "There might be a good market for local applejack if some skill went into it."

Motley chuckled.

"It's occurred to me more than once, Frank, but I think the project may have to wait. At the moment, we're still testing the authorities' reaction to our hard cider."

"Well, if you ever decide to go forward with it, let me know. Here, I'll give you my business card. I might be able to help you find a market. Anyway, it was a pleasure to see you, Parker, and I hope we cross paths again."

CHAPTER 5

Friday, April 13,
2029 Concord, Massachusetts

For the second consecutive day, Werner sipped coffee as he watched cars enter the parking garage behind the offices of the Federal Emergency Management Agency at 99 High Street. On the previous day, he had surveyed the building on foot and taken up a position just after eight o'clock outside the front entrance on High Street. From there he watched people enter the building for fifteen minutes before concluding that Regional Administrator Fred Rocco was far more likely to enter the building by car via the underground parking entrance in the rear than he was to walk in the front door. Then he had moved to the sandwich shop adjacent to the rear parking entrance for another cup of coffee. But after a few minutes on a stool at the window, he realized that it was far too exposed a place for him to visit often without being noticed.

This morning Werner bought a tabloid newspaper and took his coffee at 8:15 to a window stool in a deli overlooking Congress Street just north of Purchase. By now he had spotted clear patterns in vehicular traffic entering the parking garage. Those tenants of the commercial floors who drove to work tended to own vintage luxury cars, mainly of European and Japanese origin, though some used electric minicars. Most government employees arrived on bicycles or on foot from nearby South Station. Senior government officials, however, nearly all drove to work in government-owned automobiles, most of which were Government Motors models. Agency heads and their most senior deputies arrived in chauffeured Fords and Nissans from a special motor pool. And these officials could be counted on not to arrive until a few minutes before office hours commenced at eight thirty a.m.

It was just after 8:25 when Werner noticed a polished maroon Ford Galaxy sedan approach from the north on Congress Street and reduce speed to make the turn onto Purchase Street. Deciding to take a chance, he finished his coffee and set out toward the side entrance to 99 High Street and made a beeline for the lobby.

He knew that the parking elevators were programmed to stop in the lobby, which required passengers to transfer to a second bank of elevators to reach their offices. Regardless of where someone parked under the building, he would emerge near the newsstand and switch elevators. So Werner took up position among the magazine racks and watched as the parking elevators arrived one by one to disgorge their passengers. If the maroon Ford belonged to Fred Rocco, Werner would spot him.

At 8:36 the door opened and Werner's heart stopped. He had seen Rocco at close range on at least three or four occasions at Kamas and knew the face well. But he had underestimated the effect of seeing him outside the camp setting. Inside the wire, it was natural for a nameless political prisoner to view the warden, the most powerful person in camp, as someone extraordinary, holding the awesome power of life and death. But in his eagerness to identify Rocco beyond any shadow of a doubt, Werner had underestimated the effect of viewing this man again at such close range. He felt a sudden vulnerability. Would Rocco recognize him? Or perhaps sense that he was being watched?

Werner averted his gaze and pulled another magazine from the rack as Rocco walked past. At close range, the warden remained an imposing figure in his freshly pressed blue wool blend suit. He stood several inches above six feet in height and remained fit for his fifty-three years, with broad shoulders and a trim waist and hips. Though he had grown jowls and his wavy black hair now had turned mostly gray, his blue eyes still darted from left to right like a reptile.

At the same time, Werner sensed a strange vacancy in those shifting eyes and a sallow slackness in Rocco's face that matched his languid gait. Though this was certainly Fred Rocco, ex-warden of the Corrective Labor Camp at Kamas, he seemed a lesser man than the godlike creature that Werner remembered from years ago. Seeing this man's vacant expression as he passed the newsstand, Werner recalled Hannah Arendt's famous observation about the banality of evil that she applied to Adolph Eichmann and the authors of the Nazi Holocaust. Rocco appeared to be cut from the same nondescript cloth.

Having accomplished his surveillance mission for the morning, Werner entered a parking elevator and descended to level P1. There he found, only fifteen meters from the elevator, a gleaming maroon Ford Galaxy parked in a numbered FEMA parking spot. He took a mental note of the license number and parking space as he walked past, then exited the building onto Congress Street from the same stairwell where he had entered.

****

Boston's Central Library in Copley Square was only two stops along the Green Line from the Boylston Street station where Werner boarded after a short walk from the FEMA Building. It was located conveniently on his way back to Carol's apartment in Brookline.

Werner entered the building and settled into the first-floor newspaper room for fifteen minutes before browsing the new fiction titles and then the travel section. When he was confident that no one had followed him or took the least interest in his presence, he ascended the stairs to the second floor government documents department.

Though one could not expect to find the Department of State Security's deepest secrets at a public library, Werner was surprised what he was able to learn about Frederick Rocco and his government career with the help of the library's reference librarians. Without mentioning his own name or leaving any trail to connect himself to Rocco, Werner was able to collect a sheaf of notes from unclassified sources that documented Rocco's early career in the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the political intrigues that drove him to join the DSS, as well as background on the formation of the Corrective Labor Administration that shed light on Rocco's later, more secretive assignments within the camp system.

His trail picked up again in the government record shortly after Rocco's return to Washington and became more robust with his reassignment from the DSS to FEMA. Though much of his career advancement had occurred during his years in State Security, Rocco was now a public figure, a member of the Senior Executive Service eligible for high-level management positions carrying substantial compensation and perquisites. Should he distinguish himself in a position as politically sensitive as FEMA Regional Director, he might even catch the eye of the White House in a few years and land an appointment that could serve as a stepping stone to the really big money as a government contractor.

From the official record, it appeared that, despite any reversals Fred Rocco's career may have suffered along the way, he was now fully rehabilitated. And it also appeared beyond dispute that Rocco's greatest career recognition had come shortly after he had quelled the Kamas Revolt. Werner wondered whether Dave Lewis and the other members of the Star Committee had known this when they issued the death sentence against Fred Rocco.

Werner's last task at the library was the most important but also turned out to be the easiest. Within minutes he had Rocco's residential address, phone number and the names of his wife and children. It seemed that Rocco, having left the strict secrecy of the FBI, DSS, and Corrective Labor Administration, had done a total reversal and permitted his name to be listed in the Boston telephone directory.

****

After another seven stops along the Green Line, Werner stepped off the subway at Coolidge Corner in nearby Brookline and made his way south along Harvard Street to Carol Dodge's apartment. It was shortly after eleven o'clock, a time when nearly all the neighbors were away at work, and he looked forward to having some time alone. Yet no sooner had he unlocked the front door and stepped into the lobby than he noticed the door opening to Harriet Waterman's ground-floor apartment. Instantly Werner quickened his step toward the stairway.

"Oh, Frank, do you have a moment?" she pressed.

"Certainly, Harriet," he answered, caught in her snare. "What is it?"

"Carol came home fifteen minutes ago and she seemed really upset. She never comes home for lunch. Is everything all right?"

"If it were, that would be a first," he responded. "But don't worry, Harriet, it'll work out."

"I hope so. Like I said, she didn't look well at all."

When Werner entered the apartment, he found Carol sitting on the sofa with her legs tucked under her and a yellow pad and pen in her lap. She appeared lost in thought.

"It's a bit early for lunch, eh?" he observed en route to the kitchen. "I'm going to brew some tea. Would you like some?"

"No, thank you," she answered dully.

"Coffee?"

"Not that either. And I'm not home for lunch, Frank. I lost my job."

"Why, that's terrific!" he exclaimed, stopping in his tracks and turning to face her. "Now you're free to do whatever you want! I think that calls for a celebration, don't you?"

"No, Frank, I'm serious. I lost my job this morning. They fired me."

I heard you the first time," he continued with a grin. "Now there's nothing standing in the way of your doing something different with your life. You're a board-certified oncologist, for heaven's sake. You could work anywhere you want."

"It's not the way you think it is, Frank. It's not like they outsourced my position or eliminated my department. They fired me for cause. For violating regulations. I could lose my license over this."

The news startled Werner. He took a seat on the sofa next to her and gave her a puzzled look.

"Just like that? No warning? No probation? What sort of regulations are we talking about here?"

Carol returned his gaze and spoke without emotion.

"The rules against treating patients off the grid. They're also written into my contract. I went back and read the regulations. What I've been doing is clearly prohibited. It's just that those rules were never intended to apply to my situation."

"And what sort of situation would that be? What exactly did you do?"

"I treated patients outside the hospital," Carol Dodge replied irritably. "At the free clinic. Just as I've done nearly every week for the past six years."

"So why hasn't anyone complained about it before?" Werner questioned. "Since when is it a hanging offense to treat indigent patients pro bono? And what about the other doctors at the free clinic? Have they lost their day jobs, too?"

"It seems that I'm the only one who's been caught, Frank. Look, the rule was obviously intended to block the creation of a black market system of private clinics for the rich. None of us ever expected it to be enforced in a way that would prohibit helping the poor."

"But it doesn't make any sense, Carol. You're a key member of the pediatric oncology team, one of the best they have. Could this be some kind of mistake?"

Carol Dodge put aside her yellow pad, lowered both feet to the floor and leaned forward.

"That's what I thought at first," she replied. "But if it were a mistake, it would never have come this far. The more I think of it, the less it appears related to my performance or even breaking the rules. No, it seems more about power and control and conformity and the sheer volume of senseless government directives that we doctors are ordered to follow all the time.

"You know, Frank, maybe I'm finally paying the price for having spoken out so often over the years. I'm just grateful that the offense I'm being accused of is so preposterous that no sane person would think worse of me for it."

She forced a smile.

"So now what are you going to do?" Werner asked.

"I don't have the faintest idea. That's what the yellow pad is for. Any ideas?"

"Is there a chance they'd take you back? For example, did they make any demands or set a probationary period or a hearing date?"

"Nope. No hearing, no probation," Carol replied. "Maybe you missed it while you were away, but due process went out of fashion a long time ago around here. So what else have you got for me?"

"You could run away with me to Utah," he offered.

"That one's not on the table," she snapped. "At least not yet. Okay, here's your last chance. Any other big ideas, genius?"

"No," he answered. "Just a question."

"Go for it."

"Do you have any enemies at the hospital, Carol? Or, putting it another way, could you have offended someone at the top? You see, the reason for creating such a bewildering array of overlapping rules and regulations is to ensure that everybody becomes a lawbreaker. Then whoever is in charge can apply the rules selectively to punish anyone they want, anyone who refuses to toe the line or gets in the way of progress."

"If I've made enemies, I have absolutely no idea who they are," Carol replied indignantly. "Believe me, Frank, I don't think I've ever knowingly made trouble for anyone at the hospital. And I'm probably the last person anyone there could describe as overly competitive or ambitious."

"Might someone be jealous of you?"

"Jealous!" she exclaimed bitterly. "Why on earth be jealous of me? In the past three years I've lost my husband, my stepson, my house, and what little money I ever had. My humble life consists of shuttling back and forth between the hospital, the free clinic, and my apartment. What would anyone possibly want from me that they could have only by getting rid of me?"

"I can think of one thing, perhaps. And it's not my ruggedly handsome body, by the way."

Carol Dodge smiled.

"I wouldn't rule that out quite so quickly," she replied with an amorous look. "But do go on."

"What about your apartment?"

"This place? You must be joking."

"No, bear with me for a moment," Werner requested. "In Soviet Russia, many people denounced their neighbors to the KGB and had them sent to the camps just for a few more square meters of living space. And like the Soviets and every other dictatorship, the Unionist regime's very existence depends on the networks of informants it employs to root out dissidents.

"Well, those informants and their handlers learn very quickly that their rewards come only when they supply derogatory information. From there, it's only short leap to fabrication. So, once the informants realize that they can get nearly anything they want by throwing inconvenient people under the bus, false denunciations become the currency of the day. And, in that case, why not tattle on the uppity doctor on the sixth floor whose apartment is far too large and could be used far better by your needy and deserving relatives?"

"Frank, shame on you!" Carol scolded. "You're not really accusing Harriet of denouncing me to the security police, are you? I know you can be cynical sometimes, but this is beyond cynicism; it's paranoia."

"All right, Carol. I plead guilty to all of the above," Werner admitted. "But that doesn't make it inaccurate. I realize that you're loyal to Harriet. But think about it. Squatters suddenly target your building. Then, out of the blue, the Housing Authority gives notice that they want to measure your apartment. So you tell your admin people at the hospital to get you a waiver. But, before the waiver can go through, you lose your job. Now who knew about the squatters and the notice from the BHA and your waiver request? Who had the motive and opportunity to tell the BHA that a certain waivered tenant was illegally treating patients in an underground clinic and had taken in a lodger who doesn't have a Boston residence permit? Who other than Harriet?

"That's a truly horrible thing to say, Frank," she replied coldly.

"Whether it's horrible or not is irrelevant. The question is whether or not it's true. Anyway, I think I've said enough. Would you prefer that I leave you for a while to sort out your thoughts in peace?"

"Yes, perhaps that would be best. I'm upset and very tired, but I'll be okay," Carol replied. "I just need some time by myself to work things out."

"I'm very sorry this has happened to you, Carol. I'll be at the Club if you need me. Let's talk when I get home, okay?"

****

The patron seated at the far end of the bar was on his second Old Fashioned before Werner paid much attention to him. He was a short, slightly built man in a British-cut green tweed jacket, polka-dot bow tie and rounded horn-rimmed eyeglasses that gave him an owlish look. Though past normal retirement age, he projected a vitality that made Werner think of him as still active in a profession like law, finance, or medicine. The man's inquisitive eyes swept the room continuously as if he were waiting for others to join him.

Werner could not shake the feeling that he knew the man from an earlier time in Boston before his arrest. He decided to strike up a conversation.

"Would you like a fresh one, Sir?" he inquired.

"Yes, indeed," the man replied with a self-satisfied smile. "But this time could you make it the way Jimmy did when he ran the bar years ago? I don’t know if he added a secret proprietary ingredient of some kind, but I remember that Jimmy's Old Fashioned tasted quite unlike any other."

"Ah, that was before my time here, Sir, but I think I know what you're after," Werner suggested. "Give me a moment to find the ingredients and I'll see if I can duplicate it for you."

Werner reached beneath the bar where he kept the collection of pre-Events liquors for his special customers and pulled out a fifth of rye whiskey and two small bottles of bitters. He prepared the Old Fashioned with the special ingredients and placed it on the bar before the customer.

"Try this one. And if you like it, I suppose it might be all right to reveal Jimmy's secret to you after all these years."

The visitor took a sip and his eyes lit up.

"By all means, do."

"Jimmy's trick was to use a full-flavored rye whiskey and then add a dash each of barrel-aged bitters and Angostura. It's all about the flavor notes."

"You, Sir, are a wizard," the stranger remarked after his first sip. "This drink alone has made my return visit worthwhile."

"Welcome back to the Somerset," Werner answered. "And would I be correct in guessing that you are a former Club member?"

"Not a member, only a frequent visitor," the stranger replied, taking another sip. "When I was at MIT, a few of my consulting clients were members. We would meet here from time to time."

"What brings you back? And, if I may ask, how long has it been?"

"Oh, more than ten years, I suppose," the man mused. "I took a leave of absence from teaching during the Events and traveled to London, expecting to return in a few months. But with all the turmoil on this side of the pond, I decided to stay and start up a consulting practice in the City."

"And how long do you plan to be in Boston this time? Or might this become permanent?"

The professor gave a nervous laugh and took a long pull from the Old Fashioned.

"Actually, I had expected to fly back tonight, but the deal I'm working on requires Treasury approval. And now that's been delayed till next week."

Suddenly the professor's eyes caught sight of something over Werner's shoulder in the direction of the dining room. He finished his drink, pulled some bills from his wallet, and laid them distractedly on the bar. The tip was profligate but Werner felt no qualms about accepting it from a man who didn't bother to count his money.

Werner turned his head in time to see a familiar face peering at him from the dining room. No wonder the professor is in such a hurry, he thought. And it's probably why he came here tonight in the first place. So much for the fabled allure of Jimmy's Old Fashioneds.

"Ever so pleased to meet you," the professor offered as he rose to leave.

"Call me Frank," Werner replied.

"And I'm Harvey," the man answered as he started for the door.

****

It took Werner about five minutes to remember how he had recognized Harvey Konig. They had been introduced at a cocktail party in Brookline given by friends of Werner's wife. At that time Konig was a nationally prominent professor of economics at MIT who was an informal advisor to the Unionist Party's presidential candidate. Though Konig was not himself a Party member, he had been a highly successful fundraiser for progressive candidates in the Democratic Party and was rumored to be in line for a cabinet position if the Unionists won.

As Werner recalled, however, things hadn't turned out as Konig had expected. His candidate won the presidential election handily. Even more than that, a few years later Konig's champion seized dictatorial powers in what became known as the Unionist coup d'etat and declared himself President-for-Life. But, despite Konig's support, no presidential appointment ever came the professor's way.

Not long after the Unionist president's first election victory, an opposition newspaper compared the humiliated Konig and his fellow Progressives to the Mensheviks in pre-revolutionary Russia. It was a cruel analogy, because the Mensheviks are remembered chiefly for having helped bring Lenin's Bolsheviks to power, only to be brutally purged after they had served their purpose as Lenin's useful idiots.

While speculating about Konig's current relations with the Unionist regime, Werner once again spotted the person who had lured Konig away from the bar and into the dining room. It was Werner's friend and occasional business partner, Hank Oshiro. And the broad grin on Oshiro's face told Werner that Hank might have just found a new customer for his illegal drugs business.

Oshiro took a seat at the bar near where Konig had sat and scanned the shelves of bottles along the bar's back wall. Werner liked Hank and, despite being more than twenty years his senior, shared with Oshiro the special bond of having served at the same corrective labor camp six years earlier. But he had tossed Oshiro out of the club twice before and would do it again if need be. Tonight was, in fact, the younger man's first appearance at the Somerset Club in more than two months.

"What do you have that's new and special tonight, Frank?" Oshiro pressed, exuding confidence like a manic-depressive at the peak of his bipolar cycle.

"Are you still a whiskey drinker, my boy?" Werner inquired. "Or have you strayed from the true faith since you were here last?"

"True to the faith, Father, but always open to new options. What do you recommend on a Friday night to a man who has just sold out his entire inventory of Ambien and Valium in one deal?"

"I recommend that you never bring that shit into this club again, Hank. You know the rules. You can come to drink but leave the drugs outside. From now on, Yuri and Oleg will pat you down before letting you through the door. Understood?"

"Okay, okay, it was a mistake," Oshiro confessed. "It won't happen again. Now, where were we?"

"Bourbon, rye or rum. Those are my recommendations tonight. Would you like yours straight, on the rocks, or in a cocktail?"

"Well, as I said, Frank, I'm starting out the night in a singularly festive mood. How about one of your endless variations on the Manhattan? Surprise me."

"You're on."

Werner took out the bottle of twelve-year-old rye that he had used in Konig's Old Fashioned, poured it over ice into a thin-walled laboratory beaker with his best French vermouth and a couple of dashes each of Angostura and orange bitters, then stirred the mixture and strained it into a stemmed glass with a homemade maraschino cherry.

Oshiro drained half the drink in one gulp. Werner thought he could actually see the curtain of haze falling across Oshiro's almond-shaped eyes.

"Hank, you're such a bright guy, so talented," Werner reproved him. "I'll never understand why you waste your time hustling pills. But go ahead and tell me anyway. Maybe I'll get it this time."

Oshiro gave a good-natured laugh and took another hit from his Manhattan before settling back onto his bar stool.

"Why? Because I make good money at it and I'm my own boss. I have reliable suppliers and customers who pay. In fact, most of them rank high in the pecking order of this sorry new society of ours. You see, I understand exactly how the system works, Frank, and I don't expect it to change anytime soon. So I'm working inside the system, see? They're corrupt, I'm corrupt. But there's a difference: I'm good corrupt. And with enough good corrupt people like you and me getting the bigwigs drunk and stoned and laid, maybe someday the whole rotten edifice will collapse of its own weight and we can all start over."

"I guess that's one form of idealism," Werner commented. "Collapse and renewal through oblivion–rather like the phoenix rising from the ashes."

"Yeah, I like that, Frank. Let me think about it while you mix me another one."

Werner refilled the beaker and stirred.

"Not much of a future in collapse, though," he continued. "I'm nearly sixty, so I've already had a life. As it turns out, bootlegging and bartending are a pretty good fit for me as I get older. But you, Hank, haven't even hit thirty-five. So what's the plan when you reach my age?"

Werner presented Oshiro's refill and the younger man savored a long slow draught.

"There's no plan for that at all. I don't see myself getting there."

All at once Hank Oshiro's cheerful confidence seemed to have deserted him and Werner wondered if there weren't indeed something of the bipolar personality in him. Then Oshiro rose from his stool and peeled three twenties onto the bar from the money clip in his trouser pocket.

"Okay, then, the night's still young and I have places to go and appointments to keep," he said with forced enthusiasm. But Werner sensed that the younger man saw the disappointment in his face and he was accordingly surprised when Oshiro leaned across the bar to speak.

"Don't get me wrong, Frank, I appreciate your faith in me. But you know perfectly well how I came to be the way I am. You were there, too."

****

Shortly after eleven o'clock, the last party in the dining room settled their bill and Werner announced last call to the remaining bar patrons. When the final drink of the night had been poured, Werner closed the bar and carried the night's proceeds upstairs to the office, where the Somerset Club's owner was doing spreadsheet work on his computer.

"Checking out the mid-month numbers, Jake?" he asked the older man.

"Ah, the mid-month numbers are shit again," Jake replied indifferently. "Except your bar. It turns a tidy profit every week, like a bank or a casino. Maybe I should turn the dining room over to you, too."

Werner laughed.

"That's way outside my field, Jake," he replied. "But maybe you should to watch your food service manager a little more closely. Either he's not very good at his job or he's not reporting all the revenue."

"You may be right. Something doesn't add up down there. But the truth is, I'm too old and tired to go down there and straighten it out myself. Somebody like you should run it, Frank. Somebody who shows up every day and asks good questions and cares about the people working for him. Why don't you make me an offer? I might surprise you."

Jake Hagopian gave a big, wide-open belly laugh. Then he gazed with sparkling gray eyes at Werner and pulled a vacant chair next to his as if inviting Werner to come make a deal on the spot.

Hagopian was a compact man of medium height, with a thick neck and shoulders and what looked like half of a basketball tucked under his thin black v-neck cashmere sweater. Sometimes Werner wondered how he remained so strong and in robust health despite his punishing schedule. Though he was over seventy, Jake still put in twelve-hour workdays six days a week for his portfolio of businesses.

Among those businesses, the Somerset Club was far from the largest. Hagopian's primary business was trading in recycled building materials and gray-market construction equipment. Indeed, it was recycled building materials which had, by coincidence, brought Werner and Hagopian together, for Werner knew more than a little about recycling from his days in the brickyards at Kamas. At their very first meeting, Werner offered Hagopian some inside information about where to source certain scarce building materials that had earned a tidy sum for the old man.

Only later did Werner learn how Hagopian, an engineer by training, had entered the building materials business when his residential construction firm was on the edge of bankruptcy. The old man had credited his Soviet education with the insight that saved his business. Having spent the first twenty years of his life in Soviet Armenia, he had come to America with a sound foundation in mathematics and the physical sciences. Even more important, he had learned how to survive and prosper within a failed economic system. Seeing the analogy between the Soviet economy and the new Unionist economy, Hagopian found new ways to profit from the explosion of state-funded construction projects by supplying gray-market and recycled building materials to major contractors. Though the bidding was ostensibly open and competitive, Hagopian generally won and always turned a profit.

Recently, however, the expansion of his building materials business had made it difficult for Hagopian to keep up with his working capital needs. To raise capital, he had already sold off two small commodities trading businesses and was evaluating whether to sell the Somerset Club as well. He hoped to sell it to Werner but Werner never took the bait.

"You steer a hard bargain, Frank. How can we come to an agreement if you won't even name your terms?"

"We can't, Jake. I couldn't own the Somerset Club if you gave it to me. I'm not even allowed to be in Boston, legally speaking. I can continue to live off the grid if I don't make trouble but I have no legal right to own property here or to register a business because I have no residence permit for Boston. And they will never give me one. Period."

"For the right sum, any permit can be obtained," Hagopian asserted.

"Not this one. Not for me," Werner declared. "I was amnestied in Utah and Utah is where they want me to stay. And to be honest, I'd rather be in Utah. The only reason I stay in Boston is to find my daughter so she'll know that I'm alive. Once I do that, I plan to cash in my chips and find a place out west where I can be myself and nobody cares anymore what I've done or where I've been."

"Well, I still think you underestimate my ability to fix that permit problem of yours, but let's pull that aside for the moment," Jake offered. "If you do go back west, Frank, I'd like you to consider working for me there. With your contacts, we could get first crackle at any of the recycled materials coming out of those western worksites. The profit margin would nearly double what they are now. How about it, Frank? Partners?"

Frank Werner shook his head. It was an atrocious idea but he couldn't fault Jake Hagopian for asking. Their values were wildly different, but he had grown too fond of the old man to be angry with him over his worldview. And he loved the malapropisms that peppered Jake's Russian-accented speech.

"Thanks, Jake, but I'd rather stick to dealing in liquor and wine. It's an honest trade giving good value at a fair price and I'm pretty good at it. I could never be a party to any business that profited from forced labor or helped support the labor camp system. I don't mean to tell you how to run your business, Jake, but once you've been in one of those camps, things look very, very different."

"Okay, okay, I read you free and clear," Hagopian replied holding his palms up in mock surrender. "We go on just as before, no changes, right?"

"Right, Jake. For as long as we possibly can."

"But you don't mind, do you, if I do some checking into that residence permit thing, right?"

"I most certainly do mind!" Werner exclaimed, raising his palms to his temples in exasperation. "Didn't you hear a word…"

Then he saw the mischievous grin creep across Hagopian's face and could not help laughing along with him.

CHAPTER 6

Saturday, April 14, 2029
Waltham, Massachusetts

Entering the industrial district of old Waltham, Werner turned off Crescent Street and parked the delivery van two blocks east of the Charles River among a block of vacant warehouses. Here, in the early nineteenth century, the first integrated textile mill went into operation, giving birth to the American industrial revolution. Today, except for the string of bars, flophouses, gambling dens, and storefront missions lining lower Moody Street, the district lay largely in ruins. Werner locked the truck, scanned the street in both directions and walked around the corner to a waiting Mercedes station wagon.

The driver was a man of medium height and build, a few years past fifty, with a fringe of neatly trimmed gray hair reaching his collar. His pinstriped shirt, black cashmere sweater, and sharply creased wool gabardine trousers conveyed an air of casual elegance not often seen in Waltham. In his day, the driver had played varsity soccer at Princeton and still possessed the fast reflexes, high energy and quick wits that had served him well on the soccer field. The man observed Werner's approach in the rearview mirror and waved him forward without turning his head.

Werner noticed the wave and returned to the van, where he removed a two-wheeled hand truck and loaded it high with five cases of liquor. He locked the van and wheeled the hand truck around the corner without wasting a moment. As Werner approached, the driver released the tailgate electronically and continued watching through the mirror while Werner loaded the station wagon's cargo area. Upon finishing, Werner opened the front passenger door and took a seat next to his favorite liquor customer, Harry Kendall.

The two men had met through Kendall's caterer, Franz Meier, who had recommended Werner for his ability to procure case quantities of top-quality, pre-Events wines and spirits for Kendall's active schedule of business entertaining. Kendall, a graduate of both Harvard Business School and Harvard Law School, had been an investment banker before the Events, specializing in corporate turnarounds. As the economy collapsed and clients grew scarce, Kendall devoted himself to studying economic history and emerged a few months later prepared for what he called the inevitable pendulum swing from state-owned enterprise back toward privatization.

Kendall promptly offered his services to the newly elected governor of Massachusetts as a $1-a-year man with a mandate to draft a privatization plan for the Commonwealth's overabundant stock of state-owned financial institutions, commercial and industrial companies, and real estate holdings. His civic-minded offer was accepted without hesitation, in view of the dazzling prospects for wealth generation that his plan offered to the Governor and his circle of intimate associates.

"Going any place in particular today?" he asked Werner once the car was underway.

"No, let's just drive around a bit. When we're done, you can drop me off on Crescent Street and I'll walk back to the van."

Werner found Kendall's personality both fascinating and alarming. Here was an intelligent, educated, accomplished business leader in post-industrial Boston whose mind was enormously fertile yet totally unguided by any ethical or moral scruples. The man was pure pragmatism mixed with ample measures of ego, animal spirits, self-interest, and curiosity. Yet, apart from an occasional off-putting intensity, Kendall could be as affable and smooth a character as ever graced a Beacon Hill drawing room.

"You're single-handedly depleting my stock of single malt Scotch, Harry," Werner opened, slipping into the casual banter that characterized their easy relationship.

"You might consider giving gin a try this summer."

"Oh, I couldn't do that," Kendall replied. "The Scotch is for my health, you see. A couple of years ago my doctor told me I had a whiskey deficiency and I've been trying to catch up ever since."

"Well, since all the alcohol I sell is pharmaceutical grade, you're in good hands. And by the way, I'll leave your prescription under the visor."

Werner tucked an invoice for the delivery under the visor. The document was carefully itemized but showed no company name or address. Kendall could be relied upon to deliver an envelope with cash to the Club on Monday.

"What else is happening in your world these days, Harry? If you're planning any events this summer, I hope you give me enough warning so I can keep you supplied with Mount Gay. If you haven't bought the company yet, you should, because the stuff's getting harder and harder to find."

"Actually, it might be wise to stock up again," Kendall noted as he braked for a traffic signal. "I'm planning a big outdoor reception at my place in a few weeks and I doubt if I have enough to cover it, even with what you brought today."

"What's the occasion?" Werner inquired.

"Well, it's been a secret for months, but since we announced it to the press yesterday, I suppose I can tell you. It's what I've been working on ever since I joined the Governor's staff. We've launched a new privatization initiative involving the Boston Housing Authority, the Commonwealth, and the federal government. I'm hosting a reception for the various partners and stakeholders so that we can put all the pieces together."

"Harry, if you're able to loosen the Housing Authority's death-grip on even a fraction of the apartments it controls in Boston, you'll be a hero."

Kendall flashed a self-satisfied grin.

"We not only can, we will, and a lot sooner than you expect," he answered with his usual confidence.

"Lots of luck, Harry. From what I can see, trying to deal with the BHA is like dealing with a Harlem slumlord or the Soviet Minister of Housing. Those people don't give a damn about the properties or the tenants. They just collect rent until the building finally collapses. And lately, I hear, the BHA won't even keep the squatters out."

"All that's going to change very soon," Kendall insisted. "It's what our project is all about. Privatizing will allow us to stabilize the buildings so the squatters won't be able to get a foothold. And we'll make money for the state and the city in the bargain."

"Sounds like a win-win if you can pull it off," Werner conceded.

"It's a win-win-win when you consider the fees it will generate for the private partners. And you'll be getting a piece of that action, too, my friend, because I want you to supply the liquor for our kickoff reception.

"Terrific!" Werner agreed, concealing his misgivings. "How many people are you expecting and what sort of drinks would you like to serve?" Werner inquired.

"We'll be inviting at least a couple hundred people. There's the Treasury team, the Undersecretary and his people from Washington, the BHA people, the Mayor and all the city government people, the FEMA folks, and some local law enforcement and security types. But one thing is for sure: these guys are not white wine drinkers. They swill booze and not just any booze, either. They'll want the best and you're the best at supplying it."

"Yes, that would be me, all right," Werner concurred. "And who will be your caterer for the event?

"Franz, as usual."

"Excellent. I'll write up some serving instructions for Franz's people, just to make sure everything's clear. Do you know yet when you might place your order? I'll need a list so I can source what you want and write up a quote."

"Certainly," Kendall agreed. "I'll have it sent to you at the club Monday or Tuesday with payment for today's delivery. The event will be a month from Saturday, which should give you plenty of time. Now, do I take good care of you or what?"

"You're the best, Harry. I've never had cause to complain. But I do have one more request, if you don't mind my asking. Could you possibly offer an idea of how soon your new privatization project will be up and running? You see, we've already had squatter problems at our building and it gives my girlfriend the creeps. The police won't lift a finger.

"I can't really give a date," Kendall responded, "but the good news is that BHA has brought in FEMA and the DSS to begin securing the first buildings slated for privatization. Rest assured, their first order of business will be to deal firmly with any squatters."

"Why FEMA?" Werner inquired. "And why the DSS? Is there a security connection?"

"It's the refugees. You see, among them are quite a few officials and party members from Maine, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island who need to be taken care of. Flooding and refugees come under FEMA's mandate, so they're funding a lot of this. Just don't tell anyone I said so, okay? Only the top people at the local FEMA office are in on it."

Kendall flashed a boyish grin.

"And what about the current tenants?" Werner followed up. "Will they get to stay in their apartments after their building has been privatized?"

"Interesting question. It all depends. You see, the way it worked when the Russians and Eastern Europeans tried this sort of thing back in the '90s was that each tenant would get a voucher for the value of his flat and then the privatization authority or other private parties could make him a cash offer for it. The tenant then had the choice of selling or holding, knowing that he would pay a higher rent after privatization. But, just between you and me, Frank, if the BHA makes you an offer for your apartment, just take the money."

"And if I don't?" Werner challenged.

"Believe me, just take the money."

"And run?" Werner asked with a conspiratorial smile. "You said it, not me," Kendall laughed.

Before Werner could think of a response, the Mercedes pulled to the curb and Kendall noticed that they were back where they had started.

****

Frank Werner rolled the empty hand truck around the corner to the delivery van and returned it to its place before driving north toward Concord. The news of Harry Kendall's planned reception came as a welcome surprise, not only for the additional business it would bring, but also for the prospect that senior FEMA officials would attend. But the information by itself did not amount to a plan, as he could not be certain that Rocco would be among those invited or, if he was, that he would attend. Werner filed the information away mentally in his "operational leads" file for consideration at another time.

Even more interesting, however, was Kendall's uncharacteristic disclosure of confidential information about the BHA's privatization plan. A man of Kendall's stature had nothing to gain by disclosing it to his bootlegger and could not possibly have known the information's relevance to Werner. But to Werner, the information confirmed his worst suspicions about Harriet Waterman and explained them in a way he could not have guessed on his own.

The drive to Concord took less than half an hour. Werner pulled the van into the driveway at 50 Middle Street and parked with the van's cargo doors as close as possible to Nancy Widmer's back door.

Entering the laundry room through the mudroom, he saw stacks of open and sealed boxes marked "Donate," "Discard", and "Keep" piled against the walls.

Nancy heard him enter and greeted him in blue denims and an old ski sweater. After a suggestion or two about how to maneuver between the cellar and the back door with his hand truck, she pointed out that the family who bought the house from her would be moving in on Monday from their farm near Fitchburg. What with gas rationing, unreliable rail service, and the father's new job in downtown Boston, the Kiernan family could no longer function so far away from the city and needed a place within walking distance of the rail line, shopping, and schools.

But since the couple could not afford to pay cash for the house and no mortgage financing was available, Nancy had decided, against her attorney's advice and over her daughter's objections, to hold the Kiernan's mortgage, taking the credit risk upon herself.

"I never would have considered it if I hadn't met their children," she declared. "The Kiernans have six, you know. Two of their own and four nieces and nephews. And they're all beautiful. I decided I simply had to do whatever I could to help."

"Wow, six is impressive," Werner remarked politely. "My hat goes off to the parents. Back when our girls were at the Academy, I recall that the average number of children per family in Concord was less than 1.5. Maybe the pendulum is finally swinging the other way."

"Oh, no, it's not that couples are having more children. Heavens, no. What has happened is that more families have chosen to take in children from their extended families or churches or local communities. Without foster care or the welfare bureaucracy to fall back on, good people have stopped looking the other way."

Werner nodded respectfully. He thought of the children of the prisoners he had known at Kamas and Mactung and pondered how many of them would ever be so fortunate as to live with a family like the Kiernans in the house at 50 Middle Street in Concord.

Nancy opened the cellar door for Werner, switched on the light in the stairwell and excused herself to brew some tea. With that, Werner began the work of carrying the cases of liquor out of the cellar and loading them into the van. In little more than an hour it was finished. When he returned from the van to tidy up the cellar, however, he found a rolled up rug leaning against the cellar door, each end tied with twine. Next to it was what appeared to be a case of Gordon's Gin.

Werner carried both downstairs, then untied the twine at each end of the rug and unrolled it. Inside was a fleece-lined leather rifle case. His face flushed with excitement and his fingers trembled as he unzipped it and removed an engraved Browning Mark II Safari semi-automatic rifle with attached scope. He worked the action to verify that it was unloaded, aimed across the room, and squeezed the trigger. It was a beautiful rifle, in mint condition, with a solid feel and the smell of oil mingled with gun steel and walnut. He returned it to its case, rolled it up in the rug and retied the ends with twine.

Next Werner opened the case of Gordon's with a box cutter. Inside was a second cardboard box containing four boxes of Remington .308 ammunition, two boxes of .45-caliber pistol ammunition, a gun-cleaning kit, a leather rifle sling and a military-issue Colt Model 1911 self-loading pistol zippered inside a soft suede case. Werner removed the pistol, ejected the magazine, jacked back the slide to ensure that no round was in the chamber and then felt the thud as he released the slide. With a smile of satisfaction, he took aim at an empty wine bottle across the room and heard the hammer click on an empty chamber.

Today's bounty was no coincidence, he thought, as he repacked the cardboard cartons. In the camps it was axiomatic that coincidences did not exist. Every prisoner learned that, when the margin of survival is razor-thin, even the most insignificant event carries a meaning. Werner pondered the meaning of finding unregistered weapons and ammunition in such an unlikely place as Nancy Widmer's wine cellar. Then he carried the rug and the Gordon's box quietly back to the van.

On his return he found Nancy in the kitchen, where she was waiting with a pitcher of freshly brewed iced tea. He sat at the table while she poured out two glasses. But before drinking he took an envelope from his shirt pocket and placed it on the table.

"I rounded it up," he announced. "Will the new total be all right?"

Nancy grasped his free hand in hers and thanked him.

"And now I have something for you," she added eagerly.

"It is a bit of news," she added.

Werner waited for more.

"I received a visit last night from Monica Cogan. She said you had called on her last week and that she wanted to apologize for having been rude to you. Monica wanted you to know that she is in a difficult position at the Concord Center and asked you not to come back."

Werner nodded while hoping at the same time that this was not the entire message.

"But after you came, Monica said she felt bad about not having helped you get in contact with your daughter. So she got in touch with a few students she thought might have heard from her. One of them said that your daughter Marie has been studying at some college or university in England, but she didn't know where and couldn't remember where she had heard it."

Werner felt his heart pound at the unexpected news and questioned if this was really happening and not some sort of daydream.

"You're sure they were talking about my Marie and not confusing her with someone else?"

Nancy shrugged but with such kindness that Werner felt it would be ungracious to press for details where none were available.

"Monica promised me that she would let me know if more turned up, but not to expect much."

Werner thanked Nancy for the news and for her delicious tea. Within a week she would be living with her daughter in Northampton and out of touch with Monica Cogan. It seemed unlikely that there would be much more news of Marie through this channel, at least for some weeks. But news it had been, even if fragmentary and unconfirmed. And coming as the first news he had received of Marie since his return to Boston, it made his heart sing. Yet to have received the news today, so soon after his visit from Dave Lewis and the news of Harry Kendall's party, made his head swim.

****

Greg Doherty was waiting on the loading dock when Frank Werner backed up the delivery van for unloading on his return from Concord. Doherty was the day shift supervisor at his uncle's bonded warehouse off Boylston Street in Newton. He greeted Frank warmly, took a quick look at the two wooden pallets in the delivery van, then walked Frank over to the chain-link cage where Werner's other goods were stored before leaving to fetch a pallet jack.

Werner was both pleased and relieved that Doherty showed no signs of having downed a few beers with lunch. At forty, Doherty still looked extremely fit, as might be expected of a stellar high school hockey player who spent nearly twenty years in the Second Infantry Division of the U.S. Army, attaining the rank of Master Sergeant. He served in Afghanistan, Civil War II, the Canadian and Mexican incursions, and the Russian War.

Doherty was tall, lean and sinewy, with a severe hawk-like profile inherited from his French-Canadian ancestors, and wore his graying hair in a buzz cut as he had since joining the Army just out of high school. But inside that warrior's body, Werner had come to know, was a simple, honest, forthright character motivated in large part by a desire to please.

Werner had met Doherty only a few weeks after returning to Boston from Utah in late 2027, at a bar in Newton frequented by military veterans. Many of the vets had fought in the Russian War and had either been taken prisoner by the Chinese or had been held by their own government in so-called repatriation camps in Alaska and the Yukon upon their return from Russia.

When Werner met him, Doherty had been working at the warehouse for five years, ever since his discharge from the U.S. Army and release from the P.O.W. reindoctrination center at Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas. Doherty had been a career soldier when he had shipped off to Vladivostok to help the Russians defend the Russian Far East against the Chinese invader. He fled the Chukhotka Peninsula in the Second Infantry Division's final evacuation from Russia in 2020, having experienced almost continuous combat for the better part of a year.

Doherty and his fellow soldiers were shocked and bewildered when military police arrested them on arrival in Anchorage and transported them to a military prison camp in the Yukon as a precaution against mutiny. Later, those who were deemed politically unreliable were transferred without hearing or right of appeal to a civilian Corrective Labor Camp operated by the Corrective Labor Administration of the Department of State Security.

Doherty spent nearly a year at the camp, which was called C227 because it was located at Milepost 227 on the Canol Road (short for Canadian Oil), built during World War II to transport oil from the Northwest Territories to the Yukon. This, in fact, was the same C227 camp where Werner had labored briefly in 2024 before his transfer to the Mactung tungsten mine. When Werner confided this to Doherty while walking home after a night of barhopping in Newton, the hardened combat veteran collapsed onto a park bench in tears. After that, the two men shared a special bond that they knew few others in their lives could ever understand.

While being held at C227 without trial as a political prisoner and facing an early death from cold and malnutrition, Doherty was suddenly transferred to Ft. Leavenworth for reindoctrination pending release in the military amnesty of 2021. As a condition of his release, he signed an agreement denying him an honorable discharge and any rights to a military pension and prohibiting him from any public disclosure about his time in Russia, Alaska, or the Yukon.

When Werner had decided to enter the bootlegging business, he had called on Doherty to store his inventory. He was pleased to learn that Doherty and his uncle were already experts at dealing with black- and gray-market goods and knew exactly how to support his unusual business needs with the proper measure of discretion. But Werner could see that relations between Doherty and his uncle were cool at best, and that Doherty was often morose, drinking heavily several nights per week and nearly losing his job once after a three-day bender. Though Doherty was able to control his drinking when he attended his AA meetings, lately his attendance had been less than perfect.

"Need any help with unloading?" Doherty asked when he returned with the pallet jack.

"Nah, it's just two pallets," Werner replied. "I can handle it.

"No, really, Frank," Doherty persisted. "I don't have anything else going on and I could use every extra hour of pay I can get."

"All right, you're on. If you can help me get these boxes sorted and stacked, why don't you come grab a cup of coffee with me afterward and bill the time to me?"

Doherty gave Werner an obliging smile and slipped the pallet jack under the nearest pallet. As the work did not take long, he enlisted Doherty to help him recount the inventory, though it was only mid-month.

When they had worked for an hour, Doherty notified the office manager that he needed to help a customer and joined Werner in the delivery van. They drove two blocks to a deli where the checkout girl was young and pretty and the coffee was always fresh. After Werner paid for the coffee, they took it out to the curb and drank it in the parked van.

"How's Moira been doing?" Werner asked, breaking the silence.

"Not so hot," Doherty replied. "She went in for another checkup on Monday but the doctors still don't know what's wrong with her. So now she's on the waiting list to get approved for more testing. But in the meantime they won't give her any drugs for the pain so she can go back to work. So Moira's still at home. I offered to move in with her to help with the boys but she won't hear of it. To be honest, I don't think she trusts me to stay sober around her boys. Can't really blame her for that, I suppose."

"What about your sister," Werner inquired. "Don't you have one who works in Longwood at one of the big teaching hospitals? Couldn't she help?

"No, Sharon moved to Georgia to live with her husband's family. She says it's healthier for the kids down there and her husband found a good job at the Air Force base. So it's just me and Moira and her kids. And Uncle Ed, of course, but I don't think he'd miss me much if I were gone. You know, in all the time I was overseas, I never thought for a minute my life would come down to this. If I had, I don’t know if I'd have made it."

"Don't talk that way, Greg. It may be tough, but at its worst moment it'll never be half as bad as the best day in C227."

"What you say may be true, Frank, but that place still took a huge piece out of me," Doherty confessed. "If you want the honest truth, I don't think I've been good for much of anything from the day I left the Yukon.

"It's like my Dad's voice coming back at me from the dead. There he is, drunk as a skunk, screaming at me that I'll never do anything or amount to anything as long as I live. Until I got off that plane from Russia, I knew he was wrong. I had been more places and accomplished more than he could have ever imagined.

"But up north on the Canol Road, all I could think about was those Unionist bastards selling us out to the Chinese and then putting us away in camps to keep us from talking. And it was the best men that they treated the worst. The born leaders among us, the ones who could see what had happened and wouldn't keep their mouths shut: those were the ones they went after first. I'm only alive because I gave in to them. When the amnesty came through, I thought to myself, I'll do anything and say anything they want just to ride the amnesty train out of here. But they got their pound of flesh, all right. Sometimes when I think about it, I wish I'd said no."

"What if there were something you could do to bring to justice some of the people who created and ran the camps?" Werner asked, turning to look Doherty directly in the eye. "Tell me, would you even consider an opportunity like that?"

"Frank, what you're saying could get both of us arrested and thrown back into hell," Doherty answered with a dark look. "You'd better be damned serious if you expect me to answer that."

"And if you're not serious, Greg, I wouldn't want you to answer," Werner replied. "It would be better to forget we ever spoke about it."

"Well, I am serious, so keep talking."

"Greg, when you were in the Yukon, did you ever hear of the Star Committee?"

"Weren't those the hit squads that used to knock off the stool pigeons?" Doherty asked.

"Well, you're warm," Werner replied. "Star Committees put accused stool pigeons on trial and then Star Teams carried out the sentences. In those days, it was considered every prisoner's duty to serve on a Star Team if called upon by an officer of higher rank who showed him the star."

Werner opened his palm and showed Doherty a small paper disc inscribed with a five-pointed star and the numeral "1" at its center.

"The number ’1‘ means that a Star Committee has chosen me to lead a Star Team and my showing you the star means that I'm asking you to join my team. Will you accept the assignment?"

"Is this an up or down choice or do I get to ask questions?" Doherty asked with narrowed eyes.

"It's up or down, I'm afraid. Questions come later."

"Then count me in," the younger man answered after a moment's hesitation. "The only thing is, Frank, I didn't know you were an officer. What was your branch of service?"

"I did a few years overseas in the C.I.A. after college. I didn't really think it counted as military service, but the Star Committee said it was close enough for them."

"Okay, then, what can you tell me about the assignment?" Doherty pressed. "Will I have to kill somebody?

"The Team will, but it's not clear just yet which one of us will do it," Werner explained. "A Star Team is rather like a firing squad. The squad is collectively responsible for taking the life of the condemned person while acting under orders from a higher authority. But if for some reason you had to carry out the sentence alone, could you do it?

"I'm a soldier," Doherty replied flatly. "I understand orders."

As Werner observed the younger man's face, it seemed all at once as if a light appeared in Doherty's eyes while a thin smile spread across his face.

"You're going to think this is really weird, Frank, but all week it's as if I've expected something like this to happen to me. Every morning when I get up, I have this feeling that there's something important I have to do. And get this: Wednesday night, as I was walking into a bar on Beacon Street, it felt as if a giant hand was holding me back. I stepped back a few paces and tried again but I just couldn't get through the door.

"That's when I got the message–not a voice, but more like a thought–that I had to stay stone sober from now on because there was something very important I would be asked to do."

Doherty reached out to shake Frank Werner's hand. To Werner surprise, in under a minute he seemed to have become a different man.

"You know, Frank," Doherty went on, "I used to wonder why God or Fate or whatever you want to call ‘Him’ saved my life over there in Russia and brought me back to Boston. With my parents gone and the rest of my family dead or scattered across the country, I often thought that there wasn't any point to it. Well, now I believe there is. When do we start?"

CHAPTER 7

Flashback: September, 2027
Highway I-93, Central New Hampshire

Werner awoke from a deep sleep at the sharp blatting noise from the compression brake as the eighteen-wheeler began the steep mountain descent. It had been nearly two hours since the truck had crossed from Canada into Vermont and they were now leaving New Hampshire's White Mountains behind them as they hurtled down I-93 toward Laconia and the Lakes Region.

Shaking the slumber from his eyes, Werner looked out upon the autumn landscape. Though it was only mid-September, the foliage season was already past its peak, with most of the red, orange, and yellow leaves having fallen to earth.

A decade and a half earlier, the Vermont foliage season had begun in mid-September and extended as late as the end of October. But New England weather patterns had been thoroughly disrupted by nearly ten years of oceanic current shifts, jet stream diversions, and volcanic eruptions so that winter now arrived a full month earlier than it had for most of the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries.

Werner gazed out at the western horizon, admiring the reddish orange sky and the purple-mauve glow at sunset created by fine volcanic ash lingering in the stratosphere years after the last major eruption in the Cascades three years before. So far, the scenery along the last leg of his trip east, which had begun that afternoon in Sherbrooke, Quebec, did not look much different from his memories of it five years earlier. The traffic was thinner, the potholes more abundant, the bridges more badly rusted, and more of the roadside buildings burnt or abandoned, but the rustic beauty of the place had lost none of its charm for having retreated two steps toward the primitive.

The driver, a well-built black man in his late forties with a neatly trimmed beard, took a sip from a covered plastic mug and asked Werner if he would like some coffee. Werner declined. The man had driven Werner all the way from Windsor, Ontario, and his name was Jonah Tucker.

"Looks to me like you had a good sleep there, partner," Tucker continued in a friendly way. "Can't blame you for being on edge at the border. Those guards can be pretty fierce. But you haven't seen anything till you try it going the other direction. Those boys don't like it one bit when they sees someone trying to leave this Union-made heaven of theirs."

"Yeah, I could feel it when I crossed from Detroit into Ontario two days ago," Werner replied.

"Back in the day, I used to drive that route every week. But not much goes on in Detroit nowadays. I was lucky they transferred me to Vermont before the fires hit the place. Last time I drove through the Motor City, my old neighborhood was nothing but trees and weeds."

"Your company sent you to Vermont?" Werner inquired. "Or did you go there for your other work?"

"The company sent me," Tucker concurred. "But I decided a long time ago that I'd keep doing the Lord's work no matter where I was sent."

Werner hesitated to press any further, as he had been counseled at the start of his cross-country journey not to exchange more than minimal personal information with the volunteers who helped him along the way. In the event anyone were questioned by the authorities, it would be safer for both passenger and driver if each knew as little as possible about the other. Nonetheless, both men shared the common value of promoting the free movement of peoples within Unionist North America and each had a natural admiration and liking for the other.

On Werner's side, he owed an enormous debt of gratitude to the men and women of the New Underground Railroad who had agreed to help him defy the prohibition against former corrective labor camp prisoners leaving the Restricted Zones where they were required to reside in internal exile. The NUR organization in Salt Lake City had agreed for humanitarian reasons to help Werner search for his only surviving daughter in Boston. In his case, the NUR people saw a relatively low risk of blowback for helping him escape from Utah because Werner had been released under amnesty and thus was not likely to be rearrested so long as he did not commit any new crimes.

As for Tucker, he was a founding member of NUR, having been descended on both sides from runaway slaves who had fled to Canada before the Civil War and settled in Detroit in the 1870s. His family's church had been one of the first Detroit congregations to call for NUR's creation as a direct successor to the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s.

After breaking publicly with the Unionist Party following the stolen election of 2016, NUR had dared to expose the secret creation of the Corrective Labor Administration within the Department of State Security and its system of concentration camps for political dissidents of all kinds. In retaliation for their defiance, the DSS had arrested top leaders from the leading churches behind the creation of NUR and persecuted anyone suspected of having joined or supported the clandestine civil rights organization.

After a minute or two of silence Tucker spoke again.

"They told me you came to us from one of them Restricted Zones out west. How long have you been traveling?"

"I left Salt Lake City about a week ago," Werner replied. "It could have gone faster, but we ran into delays with a couple of the transfers."

"Are you one of them Mormon rebels the Unionists have taken off after? You don't have to say so, but if you were, I'd want you to know I'm right proud to have you in my rig."

"No, can't claim that distinction," Werner replied. "I'm not even a Utah native. I just lived there for a few years before my arrest and I grew to like it. When I'm finished in Boston, I plan to go back."

"Were you ever in a camp back in Utah?"

"Oh, yeah," Werner replied tersely.

"Listen, I know I'm not supposed to be asking you a lot about your experiences and all," Jonah explained uneasily, "but did you ever hear of a camp in Utah by the name of Kamas?"

"Why do you ask?" Werner replied.

"I mean, is Kamas a real camp? Were you ever there?"

"Jonah, you’re a good man and I like you very much. But this is not something I can talk about. Could we discuss something else?"

"All right," Jonah continued, undeterred. "We'll leave it alone. But do you mind if I ask another question?"

"Go ahead."

"Have you ever run across a man by the name of Uriah Tucker?" Jonah pressed.

Frank Werner stopped breathing for a fraction of a second. The muscles in his face may also have betrayed an involuntary startle reflex, because Jonah Tucker appeared to have noticed it. Of course, Jonah and Uriah shared the same last name and the same powerful build and a striking facial resemblance that Werner had not connected until this moment.

"Yeah, I knew him," Werner offered. "Uriah's the one who first told me about NUR. I wouldn't be here in your rig if it weren't for Uriah. He was a fine man in his day."

A smile spread across Jonah Tucker's face and his eyes welled with tears. Perhaps it was the glow of the sunset emerging from behind a bank of clouds, but it seemed to Werner as if Jonah's face shone with a soft light as he gazed expectantly at this stranger who apparently held the answer to a long-standing question.

"Uriah was my brother," Jonah revealed, his voice close to breaking. "Four years ago we learned he was being held at a place in Utah called Kamas. But since then we've heard nothing. It's as if the place had been wiped off the map like Sodom and Gomorrah in the Bible."

"Uriah was as close to a saint as I think I'll ever see," Werner acknowledged quietly, choosing his words with care. "The last time I saw him was about three years ago. I heard he might have died in a camp in Colorado not long after that. I'm sorry, Jonah."

"I think most of us in the family have felt for a long while that Uriah was dead," Tucker remarked. "A few of us have seen him in dreams. But my dreams were scary and ugly and left me with a feeling that Uriah had failed somehow or fallen from grace. Hearing good news from you about Uriah lifts a heavy burden from my heart. Clearly the Lord had a hand in sending you to us today, my friend."

"Perhaps so," Werner replied carefully. "Anyway, I'm honored to help."

Werner replayed the conversation in his mind and knew that he had said the right thing, the kind thing, the charitable thing. He had honored a man who, until close to the end, had lived an exemplary life. But Werner had not told the full truth about Uriah Tucker. And for that, he knew, many would condemn him if they had heard his words tonight.

Jonah Tucker nodded and drove on. But a few minutes later he broke the silence again.

"When we get to Boston, do you have a place to stay?" he asked.

"I have cash for the first couple nights," Werner disclosed. "It ought to be enough for a flophouse, I suppose."

"How are you going to get by after that?"

"I figure I can stay with friends," Werner answered. "I used to live in Boston. There are people I can look up."

"How about money?"

"I'll find odd jobs, I suppose. There are always old people in the wealthier suburbs who need help."

"Not so many, not since the Saigon Flu swept through," the driver noted soberly. "And not so many wealthy ones, either, since the Moneymen Purge. You may go through a lot of shoe leather between meals."

"Whatever happens, it can't be any worse than what I've been through in the camps."

"Amen to that," Jonah responded with a sympathetic smile. "But would you mind if I gave you a friendly piece of advice?"

"Please do," Werner responded, returning the smile. "Give me all the pieces you can spare."

"Okay then, in Salt Lake did they tell you about the new residence permit system?"

"They did, but I'm sure I didn't catch all the technical details. Why don't you fill me in," Werner proposed.

"Just remember one thing: as long as you live off the grid and don't ask the government for anything, chances are you can last a long time in Boston without a big problem. We already know your ID checks out and shows you're not in any trouble with the FBI or the DSS. But don't ever use it to try and get yourself a ration card or treated at a government clinic or a public housing unit, because that's just the kind of thing that could put you on a lockup train back to Utah."

Werner pondered the implications of this advice.

"Okay, let's say I get caught up at a checkpoint somewhere in Boston a month from now and the police figure out that I've been in Boston for a few weeks without a residence permit when I'm not even supposed to set foot outside of Utah. What happens to me?"

"Do you have a return ticket you can show them?" Jonah asked.

Werner patted his breast pocket and nodded.

"Good. Then, unless you've done something else to piss them off, I'll lay ten-to-one odds they'll let you go. You see, the government needs people like you. The city, the state, the feds: they all count on the black market and the gray market and the indocumentados who do the work that no one else will do without entitling them to government benefits. They may hassle you or shake you down for protection money, but they probably won't arrest you unless you make a nuisance of yourself. If you support yourself, look respectable and act like you belong, the cops won't give you a second look."

"That sounds reassuring enough," Werner replied. "Is there any point in asking what it might take to actually get a Boston residence permit? How big a bribe might it take?"

"Forget about it. Unless you're a big-shot Party member or one of their relatives, you'll never get a residence permit for a city like Boston. The quota's filled."

They drove through Concord and Manchester, New Hampshire, after dark without comment. Traffic was light and with so many of the overhead streetlights broken or inoperable, Werner could see little of interest from the highway. As they approached the Massachusetts border, Werner expected to see heavy northbound commuter traffic but found little. Nearly all the vehicles on the roads were trucks, and even they were few and far between.

An hour later they merged onto I-95 and entered the outskirts of Boston. What had once been Boston's thriving hi-tech Route 128 Corridor was now a gray, shabby wasteland. Derelict cars and trucks with broken windows and missing tires lined the side streets and access roads along the highway. Shopping malls and major retailers were with few exceptions dark and boarded over, tall weeds sprouting from cracks in their sprawling parking lots.

Tall office buildings, once the headquarters of computer software and hardware companies, had somehow shed their mirror-like shells and looked down upon streets filled with broken glass. Boston's once prosperous economy had already been brought to its knees by the time of Werner's arrest in 2022 but he never expected to see its rotting corpse on his return only five years later. It frightened him to think of what he might encounter as he entered the more densely populated areas of the city.

A vision of Werner's former existence in Boston before his arrest suddenly flashed in his mind. He remembered what a visceral dislike he had once had for this congested, noisy, dirty, decaying, ungovernable city. Sometimes, despite being statistically affluent, he had felt like a prisoner in Boston. The idyllic lakes, mountains, and beaches of the surrounding New England countryside seemed distant and expensive, while the fashionable entertainments of Boston's Theater District, Beacon Hill, Newbury Street, the North End, and even Fenway Park were also priced beyond reach. He felt the doors of Boston's famous attractions closed to him because of his meager budget. Sometimes he had wished for a cosmic leveler to descend upon the city and narrow the gap between the rich and the middle class. Now, seeing how calamitous had been the city's decline, he felt ashamed to have ever harbored such thoughts.

The eighteen-wheeler passed the exit for Route 2 and Concord and was approaching the exits for Weston and Waltham when Jonah Tucker asked Werner where he would like to be dropped off.

"I can't take you any closer into the city than I-95. But if you'd like to go downtown, I can let you off at Exit 22 and you can walk from there to the Riverside T station and take the Green Line in. How about it?"

"Good idea, Jonah. Yeah, let's do that," Werner agreed.

"You sure you're going to be okay?" Jonah continued. "Might you be needing a ride back when you catch up with that young daughter of yours? You know, I swing by here every couple of weeks."

"Thanks, but I have a return ticket. And if I get lucky enough to find her and she wants to come back with me, I guess I'll have to earn enough money for another one."

"Well, if you need any help, I want you to call me," Jonah insisted.

He handed Werner a business card with the address and phone number of his trucking company's office in Burlington, Vermont.

"Call this number and ask for me if you need anything at all."

Then, as an afterthought, Jonah retrieved the card and wrote a second phone number on the back.

"If you get into an emergency, I want you to call my nephew over at MIT. Come to think of it, Sam is probably going to want to meet you sooner or later, anyway, seeing as how Uriah was his father and you knew him in his final days. So, forget about waiting for an emergency and just give young Sam a call. Tell him his Uncle Jonah sent you and he'll straighten up right smart."

Werner took the card, committed the phone numbers to memory and tucked it into his wallet.

"Jonah, I can't thank you enough. May we meet again."

"Count on it," Tucker replied. "The Lord went to a lot of trouble to bring us together and I have a feeling he'll find a reason to do it again."

With that, the massive tractor-trailer pulled onto the exit ramp and slowed to a halt to let Werner out.

CHAPTER 8

Sunday, April 15, 2029
Jamaica Plain, Boston

Head-high mounds of frozen snow thinly coated with soot still lurked in the corners of parking lots and along the edge of the Jamaicaway but the sun felt warm on Frank Werner's back as he made his way along Leverett Pond toward the Hyde Square neighborhood of Jamaica Plain. He had decided to walk the mile or more from Carol's Brookline apartment both because the day was so lovely and because he wanted enough time to run a counter-surveillance route to be sure that no one was following him.

As he made his way east on Heath Street the stench of urine, smoke, and rotting garbage grew steadily stronger. On the residential blocks, piles of trash bags spilled onto the pavement from overfilled dumpsters, many of them showing gaping holes where feral cats had clawed their way in looking for food. He wondered why neighborhoods like this always seemed to be teeming with cats, yet he never saw or heard the packs of stray dogs that were so commonplace in Third World slums. He had heard that Asian immigrants killed stray dogs for meat but this was a Latino neighborhood. The shortage of dogs still didn't make sense to him unless food had become scarcer than he thought or Latino tastes had changed.

Werner turned down a side street and made for the four-story row house where Hector Alvarez lived with his widowed sister and her two young sons. Unfriendly eyes followed him from nearby front stoops and first-floor windows. Across the street a flea market had been set up in a vacant lot. In addition to trading in second-hand clothing, furniture, kitchenware, and other household goods, men in a delivery truck were selling cases of canned foods from the tailgate, probably diverted from a local factory.

At each corner of the truck stood a serious-looking youth to guard against looting of the goods or robbery of the cash proceeds. Overhead, a tangle of wires trailed down from poles overhead into various windows where the locals had managed to tap into the city streetlights for free electricity. This was a place where government rule seemed far from complete, Werner mused, and the thought buoyed his spirits.

Hector Alvarez answered the reinforced steel door with a welcoming smile. As he closed the door and bolted it behind him, Werner noticed a slender woman in jeans and a tank top usher two young boys of around eight or ten around the corner toward what he assumed was the kitchen. This was Alvarez's widowed younger sister, Cara, and her two sons, who had moved in with him two years earlier when her husband died from an untreated heart condition.

Hector saw the boys' retreat and gave a soft chuckle. He was darkly handsome in his black-and-white warm-up suit and white running shoes, though in Werner's view the outfit gave him the sinister look of a narcotics trafficker. At the age of forty-four, Alvarez remained a physically imposing figure, standing six feet two inches and retaining the chiseled physique of his years as a Marine non-com. He wore his graying hair buzz-cut short, adding to the impression of a controlled but ruthless power. Though Hector Alvarez was no dope peddler, Werner knew him to be a highly successful gray-market trader and a cynical and possibly dangerous economic outlaw.

Werner had met Alvarez within a month of arriving in Boston, through acquaintances active in the gray market and second-hand automobile trade. When he had asked them where he could borrow or rent a small truck or moving van without having to deal with government red tape, they had referred him to a man in Jamaica Plain, who had in turn referred him to Hector Alvarez. The two men, as Werner later learned, belonged to a loosely organized commercial network that bought, sold, and sometimes rented gray-market cars and trucks.

Though they claimed not to handle stolen vehicles, it seemed improbable to Werner that, with their disregard for official documentation and the high volume of vehicles they exported covertly all over Latin America, none of them was stolen. And it still puzzled him how someone could make money exporting cars and trucks in a country where roadworthy vehicles were in such short supply.

Alvarez led Werner up freshly painted stairs to a sunny second-floor drawing room. The room plainly belonged to a bachelor. Soccer photos and posters were tacked at irregular intervals along the mustard-colored walls while a flotilla of faux-leather couches and armchairs were gathered in a semicircle around a flat-screen television that hung on the far wall. Along the rear wall stood a trestle sideboard that served as Hector's bar.

Alvarez removed two cans of beer from a compact refrigerator and handed one to Werner. From the looks of his TV room, Alvarez had prospered in recent years in a way that set him apart from his peers in Hyde Square. Werner knew how much this meant to Alvarez, since the two men had become close friends and shared secrets with each other that neither man had shared with any other.

Though neither talked openly of having spent time in a corrective labor camp, both shared certain subtle traits or habits, imperceptible to normal people but detectable by the criminal class, which distinguished them from those who were strangers to the camps. One evening at a bar in Newton, after Werner mentioned to an associate of Alvarez that he had recently arrived from Utah, the associate raised an eyebrow and commented that Werner must be a tough hombre to have returned alive from the camps there, because his boss was the only other man he had known to survive the experience; it had nearly killed him.

The man introduced Werner to Alvarez later that night. Though the two ex-prisoners were wary of each other at first, only hinting at where each might have worked within the Restricted Zones and the years when they were there, before long each realized that the other had been a prisoner at Kamas during the revolt of 2024. Although, unlike Werner, Alvarez had been sent to the camp as a criminal and not as a political prisoner, Hector had sided with the politicals during the revolt and therefore shared Werner's hatred of the warden, the Corrective Labor Administration, and the Unionist Party.

Fortunately for Alvarez, however, his sentence for smuggling and his status as a common criminal operated as a prejudice in his favor and protected him from being identified as a rebel. Instead of being sent to the Yukon with the political prisoners who had participated in the revolt, he was transferred with other criminals to a conventional penal facility in Colorado that was outside the jurisdiction of the Corrective Labor Administration. Within a year Alvarez was back in Boston, having been released in a special one-time amnesty for common criminals who had served at least two years of their sentence in a corrective labor camp.

Werner accepted the beer from Alvarez and sat across from him in a low leather armchair. Each man raised his beer can in recognition of the other and drank. Before speaking, Werner set his backpack on the floor and removed a bottle of fifteen-year-old Matusalem Gran Reserva rum imported from Alvarez's birthplace in the Dominican Republic. Hector accepted it with enthusiasm and placed it on the sideboard after opening it and inhaling its rich vapors. The bottle was a sign of respect for his host that Werner calculated would reinforce his rapport with Alvarez, for today he intended to draw heavily upon it.

"Thanks for agreeing to see me on your day of rest, Hector. I wouldn't have come if there were anyone else I could go to."

"I am always happy to see you, Frank. And I am honored that you visit me in my home," Alvarez added. "There is no favor too great to ask among friends who have shared what we have shared. Five years ago, when we both sat on the parade ground in the Kamas camp, waiting to be picked out by traitors and executed as rebels, I never expected to have a house of my own and the life I enjoy today. And you, to have escaped Kamas and the Yukon, and to be healthy again and free in a great city like Boston, you must be blessed by the Virgin herself."

"If it's the Virgin who arranged it, I thank her from the bottom of my heart," Werner replied. "Every morning, Hector, I look in the mirror and I ask myself how I am still alive. And until a few days ago, I didn't have an answer. But now I think I do. And the answer may apply to you, too, which is why I have come today."

Werner removed a manila envelope from the backpack, opened it and handed Alvarez the short newspaper article inside. It was dated within days of Fred Rocco's arrival in Boston and contained a brief profile of his recent government postings as well as new FEMA programs planned for the Northeast Region.

Alvarez's face darkened and his eyes turned hard.

"I see you still remember the Warden," Werner observed.

"A man like that has no right to live," Alvarez replied.

"Yet he lives. And he prospers," Werner remarked. "Within a mile or two of where we sit now."

"What is being done about it?" Alvarez asked with an indignant expression. "Is there no resistance organization to deal with this?"

Werner withdrew from his pocket a white paper disc the size of a half dollar inscribed with a five-pointed star having the numeral "1" at its center.

"There will be one shortly. A Star Committee has already pronounced sentence on Rocco and they've asked me to form a team to carry it out. I'll need your help, Hector."

He held out the star to place it in Alvarez's hand.

To Werner's surprise, Alvarez recoiled as if from a venomous snake.

"It must be done. Yes, Frank, I understand that. But I cannot be involved. If it were only me, I would join you with my whole heart. But my sister and my nephews, they depend on me."

"This is not a suicide mission, Hector. If everything goes as planned, each of us will continue with our lives as if nothing had happened. And you will never again be contacted by anyone from the Committee. Look, Hector. You already take certain risks in your work with automobiles. You could be arrested for that and the effect on your sister would be much the same."

"In that you are wrong, my friend," Alvarez disagreed. "If I am caught as a criminal, I will get a small punishment or maybe none at all. The Unionists have a soft place in their hearts for the criminal. But if I am caught as a rebel, Rocco's people will kill me and send my sister to the camps. My nephews will grow up in a state orphanage. I was once an orphan, Frank, and I cannot let that happen to my nephews."

"I understand, Hector. I know how important your family is to you. I had a family once, too. I came to Boston for one reason only: to find my daughter. But now that the Star Committee has given me this mission, I have set aside my own dreams for the sake of achieving justice for the prisoners who never made it home. I didn't accept the assignment right away, either, Hector. But in the end I did, just as I think you will.

Hector Alvarez rose from the sofa and paced back and forth before the blank television screen.

"Do you know what it is like to be an orphan, Frank? An orphan from a poor immigrant family from Santo Domingo with no money? Do you know what it is like to see your little sister be treated like a slave by her own relatives because she has no father to protect her?

"Let me tell you what it was like for me. When I was sixteen, my family lived on a migrant farm south of Orlando. One night, fire broke out in our housing unit. Nobody knew why. Twelve people were killed, including my parents and my two younger brothers. Only my sister and I survived.

"My father's relatives blamed me for the fire. They kicked me out of their house and kept my sister but they treated her like a slave. I moved in with a friend's family until I earned my high school diploma. Then I enlisted in the Marines. The first chance I got, I took my sister out of my uncle's house and found her a place to live with an old couple in Orlando. Before long she married a good man and they were doing well. But now he's dead and her life is difficult again. Cara needs my help. I promised her that those boys would have a better life than we had and, by God, they will."

"I'm certain they will, Hector. And I would never want to come between you and your sister or your nephews. Everything you've told me reinforces my impression of the kind of man you are. It's clear that you give your complete loyalty to your family and friends and that you have a deep sense of justice."

Werner paused to measure his friend's reaction before continuing. He now had Alvarez's full attention.

"Once you commit yourself to something, Hector, I know you never quit until you finish it. You've paid your dues and earned the respect of everyone who knows you. At Kamas, for example, you stood up for what was right and joined the rebellion even though you weren't a political prisoner. Among those rebels were some of the finest men I've known. And now very few are left.

"You see Hector, it can't be just anyone who carries out the sentence against Rocco. This has to be a judicial act carried by the Star Committee under authority from the Kamas prisoners. And to do it properly, we need men of integrity who risked their lives in the Kamas rebellion and suffered the consequences. There aren't many of us left, Hector, and you're one of the very best we have. We need you on the team. Will you join us?"

Hector Alvarez stopped pacing. He stood at the window and looked out upon the flea market across the street with an anguished expression.

"I cannot say yes, yet I also cannot say no. If I say yes and break my promise to my family, I am not a man. But if I refuse to avenge the deaths of my comrades when my help is needed, I am also not a man. What will be the meaning of my life if I turn my back on what I have lived for?"

"Only you can answer that, Hector," Werner answered. "You must do what you believe serves the highest good and gives your life its highest purpose and meaning. But, if it makes your choice any easier, I can offer you this: if you join us and become unable to support Cara or her boys because you are killed or captured, I will take personal responsibility for the boys' care and education until they are adults. I'm an old man, Hector, but I ought to be good for another ten years. And in my heart I do believe God will preserve at least one of us long enough to see those boys become U.S. Marines like their uncle."

Hector remained expressionless as he left the window and approached Werner. For a moment, Werner thought his host might attack him with his bare hands. Then he saw Hector's eyes glisten with welling tears. A moment later Hector Alvarez held him in a tight embrace.

"God help us both. May he help us all," he answered in a hoarse whisper. "I will join you."

****

The sun was low on the horizon when Werner returned to Carol's Brookline apartment. He could detect the odor of boiled cabbage the moment he entered the stairwell. It was apparently not coming from Harriet Waterman's ground-floor apartment, which was dark. Probably the Russians on the second floor, he thought. He had come to know many Russian prisoners in the Yukon and grew to love and respect them. He introduced himself to the family on the second floor, ethnic Russian refugees from the Caucasus, within a week of moving in.

When he opened the door to Carol's sixth-floor flat, the smell of cooking was close to heavenly by comparison. It was a Lebanese dish that Carol had learned from her paternal relatives, baked with ground lamb, bulgur wheat, onion, pine nuts, and Middle Eastern spices. She usually served it with a salad of romaine, cucumber, tomatoes, feta cheese, and olives topped with pita bread croutons. Werner's thoughts immediately turned to how good the meal would taste with a bottle of full-bodied Lebanese red wine.

To his surprise upon entering, he found Linda Holt seated on the living room sofa with a hardbound novel in her lap. She looked up at him with a contented smile.

"Did you have a good walk, Frank? It must have been a lovely afternoon to be outdoors."

"It certainly was," he agreed. "I followed the Jamaicaway to Jamaica Pond and then came back up around Leverett Pond. I've never seen so many bikes on the bicycle path."

"That's what I should have done today," Linda confessed with a mischievous smile. "A long walk would have done me good, instead of laying about eating bonbons and reading racy novels on Carol's sofa. Shame on me."

"Well, it's too late to do much about that, Linda. But it seems to me that the best way to recover from a day of decadence is to follow it with a good strong cocktail."

Linda Holt laughed.

"In a while, perhaps," she replied. "But why don't you ask Carol if she'd like one?" She's in the kitchen with Harriet making dinner.

Werner nodded in acknowledgement before setting off for the kitchen, where Harriet was chopping vegetables and herbs, while Carol checked the oven temperature.

Harriet stopped speaking the moment he came into view. Werner saw a fleeting look of surprise in her eyes, as though she had been saying something that she did not intend him to hear.

"Would either of you like a cocktail before dinner?" he interrupted. "Carol's having a Sidecar with me."

"Oh, I'd better not," Harriet answered nervously. "I have a troop of visiting relatives to feed. If I don't start dinner soon, I'll have a mutiny on my hands."

"You ought to tell Frank about your cousins, Harriet," Carol suggested. "He's been warning of a housing crisis for months."

"Well, the housing crisis is already here," Harriet replied sourly. "And it's happening right downstairs in my apartment, if you really want to know. Seven adults and two children in a two-bedroom flat. There's not even room to turn around."

"But weren't your cousins promised a place weeks ago?" Carol inquired in surprise. "I thought you said they were on the Housing Authority's priority list."

"They were," Harriet continued. "But as fast as the BHA says something is available, it's taken over by squatters. FEMA has given the BHA millions to house the flood refugees, but the refugees aren't the ones who end up in the units."

"Why doesn't the City crack down, then? Who are these squatters, anyway?" Carol probed.

"Local people, for the most part," Werner interjected. "They're not Party members or politically connected, so they aren't on anyone's priority list. But when push comes to shove, the local police won't touch them because they know many of them and have to live with them."

"Frank's right about that," Harriet responded. "But FEMA is putting the BHA under huge pressure to make room for the refugees because the flooding crosses state lines. If they don't find flats for another twenty thousand people by fall, FEMA threatened to cut off the Housing Authority's federal funding and take over the project for themselves."

"The City would never let that happen," Carol scoffed. "They'd throw people out into the street to make room for the refugees if that’s what it takes, but they won't give up their chance at more federal money. Not in Boston."

Harriet and Werner exchanged glances. Both believed that dislodging current tenants to make room for new ones was precisely what the Boston Housing Authority had in mind. And both believed that tenants like Carol Dodge would be among its targets. Carol, however, would not admit to either that her own apartment was at risk. And the closer the danger approached, the more strongly she seemed to resist taking their advice.

Suddenly Werner noticed a look of resolve in Harriet Waterman's eyes. She wiped her hands in a dishtowel, removed her apron and addressed herself to her hostess and part-time employer.

"Carol, I have a confession to make. You're not going to like it, but you need to hear it anyway. Yesterday morning, some community organizers from the BHA came to the building to measure apartments. I let them in because I had to. Yours was one of the apartments they wanted to see. Now that you don't have a waiver of the maximum living space standards anymore, they have the power to evict you or sublet the apartment without your consent."

Carol Dodge glowered at Harriet and at that moment Werner noticed Linda Holt standing in the doorway listening. The concierge continued.

"Now, if you brought in some qualified tenants to live with you, the square meters per person would be under the limit and the BHA would probably leave you alone…at least for a while. That could buy you enough time to find a new job and get your waiver back."

Harriet stopped, took a deep breath, and waited for an answer. As there was none, she continued.

"What I'm suggesting is that you take in two of my cousins for a while. They're a young married couple, no kids, and both of them will be out most of the day working two jobs each. They lost everything in the Portland flood and are just getting back on their feet. They'd be with you only until they got a place of their own or you got your waiver back, whichever happens first."

Carol regarded her housekeeper coolly and paid no attention to Werner or to Linda Holt. After a tense pause, she stiffened visibly and folded her arms.

"I already have someone living with me," she said with the slightest inclination of the head toward Werner.

"It's not the same, Carol. Frank doesn't have a Boston residence permit. My cousins do. And they're already cleared by FEMA and the Authority for public housing."

"I'll have a new job and a new waiver very soon. This is not at all a good time for me to take on houseguests. I need rest and space so that I can interview well."

"And how is the job search going?" Linda Holt intervened in a motherly tone that helped to reduce excess tensions.

"It's coming," Carol replied distractedly, now turning to face Linda. "I've put feelers out in the right places and I'm getting my calls returned. But these things take time. Fortunately, I have some savings, so I feel I can afford to wait for the right opportunity."

"Is the Physicians' Union helping you?" Linda suggested. "That's what it's there for, you know."

"Those hacks? Surely you're joking, Linda. You know as well as I do that the doctors who belong to that union join it precisely because they're incompetent as practicing physicians. I wouldn't go anywhere near them."

"Maybe they're not the greatest doctors who ever lived but the Union's officers have a lot to say about who gets hired. You know, Carol, it might not hurt to have the Union on your side, considering what's at stake."

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Carol declared firmly. "We've crossed swords too many times for that. Neither of us would have the other."

"Could it be that you're on some sort of blacklist?" Werner ventured. "Because of the free clinic incident or perhaps because you never joined the Party or the Union?"

"It wouldn't surprise me for a moment," Carol shot back irritably. "Those people seem to have a blacklist for every occasion. I'd consider it a badge of honor to be on it. I'd rather see patients from a park bench on Boston Common than get a job through the Party."

"Except that you can't practice medicine without a license, even from a park bench," Werner replied evenly. "And the Party controls the licenses."

"Oh, you're all being so negative!" Carol burst out.

Then, seeing that the others remained unmoved, she changed tone and made an attempt at irony.

"Whatever happened to the power of positive thinking around here? If I'm in such bad shape, why aren't you talking up the law of attraction or the habits of effective people or how to mind-control the problem? Why, maybe I'll cook up a few affirmations before I go to bed and see if I don't get the solution to my problems in a dream. See, I think I feel better already."

This was apparently a pointed gibe at Linda Holt's New Age beliefs. For, despite her distaste for the Unionists, Carol Dodge and the Party still shared the same materialist philosophy that denied the influence of mind over matter under any circumstances. Werner, whose beliefs were closer to Linda's than Carol's, opted to change the subject.

"Well, if all fails, I'm sure you could find yourself a very nice position at a hospital in Salt Lake City. You still know how to ski, don't you, Carol?"

Carol rolled her eyes.

"When I said I was willing to expand my job search beyond Boston, I meant beyond Route 128, not beyond the Rockies."

"Frank doesn't give up easily," Linda Holt observed with a sparkle in her eye. "If you don't find something here pretty soon, before you know it he'll be lining up interviews for you in Utah. Then you'll really be in a pickle."

"Now that would be truly scary," Carol replied, showing signs of warming.

"Hardly," Werner interjected. "But if you think so, here, let me make you one of my Manhattans to take the edge off. And how about you, Linda? Manhattan or Sidecar?"

"Do we have fresh lemons?" she asked.

"We certainly do," Harriet chimed in, evidently relieved at the reduction in tensions. "I'll bring them out to the sideboard."

"And I think I'll freshen up a bit, if you'll excuse me," Linda suggested.

Left alone with Carol, Werner approached her from behind and gently grasped her around the waist.

"I understand how difficult this must be for you right now. If it might help, I can arrange to be away for a while until things settle down. I have some buying trips coming up on the Cape and in Rhode Island and Connecticut, and I could consolidate them into one long road trip."

"That's thoughtful of you, Frank. But don't do it yet," Carol replied. "Let's wait a while and see how things go."

"Okay. And one more thing," Werner added. "I apologize if it seems I'm pushing Utah on you. I know how rooted you are in Boston and I respect that. I just want you to remember how valuable a person you are, Carol, even if some people in your field may have forgotten it. No matter what happens, you have options. We'll find a way."

She took Werner's hands and squeezed them tightly.

"I know," she said a low voice just above a whisper. "And I know how much you want to help. I just can't imagine myself anywhere other than Boston. Sometimes I get very sad thinking you'll give up on me and go back to Utah alone. I'm so confused, Frank, I just don't know what to do anymore."

CHAPTER 9

Monday, April 16, 2029,
Cambridge, Massachusetts

The transit bus appeared to linger at the stop on Harvard Street as Werner approached from around the corner as if to catch it. But suddenly he slowed his pace and the bus driver, apparently seeing his hesitation, drove on.

Werner stood at the bus stop no longer than a minute or two before a silver Toyota sedan passed him, reduced speed, and pulled to the curb half a block away. Werner set off toward to the car and opened the front passenger door. The driver was Hector Alvarez.

"Good morning," he greeted Alvarez while taking a seat and giving him a closer look. "Wow, you look like hell."

Alvarez had dark circles under his eyes and had not shaved. He took a sip from an insulated paper cup.

"And that is exactly how I feel," the car dealer responded. "A team of us worked all night preparing a shipment of cars for export. We didn't finish until an hour ago."

"I appreciate your professionalism, Hector. Our job this morning won't take long. Maybe twenty or thirty minutes. It depends on how soon the target gets out the door and onto the street."

"Where are we going?" Alvarez asked impatiently.

"First stop is Back Bay. Stay on Commonwealth and drop me off at Gloucester. Then you're going to continue on Commonwealth for two blocks and pull over between Exeter and Dartmouth. Stay there and keep your eyes peeled for the target vehicle until you get my signal."

"What is the signal?"

"Three clicks on the handheld radio," Werner informed him. "Then you're to follow the target vehicle to its final destination, which ought to be a major office building downtown."

Alvarez nodded his assent.

"But wherever the target goes," Werner continued, "take note of the start and end time for the trip, the exact route, and anything else you think might be worth recording. What we're trying to do here is establish what time the target leaves his house every morning, what car he uses, what route he uses, and whether he's security-conscious."

"What if he enters a parking garage?" Alvarez asked. "Should I follow him in?"

"Definitely not. Just note the time and location and move on. If you ever face a choice between losing the target and having him notice you, always break off contact and make a fresh start the next day. Above all, we don't want him to notice us or even realize he's under surveillance."

"How often do you want me to do this?"

"Three or four times this week would be great if you can find the time," Werner answered. "But each time you do, be sure to pick up the target at a different point to avoid setting a pattern of your own. Do you have another car you can use sometimes besides this one?"

"I can find one."

"Okay then," Werner concluded with an encouraging smile. "We'll meet again on Sunday. Here's the license number of the car you'll be following. It's a maroon Ford Galaxy four-door with federal government plates."

Werner handed Alvarez a folded sheet of notebook paper bearing the license number. Then he removed a small blue handheld two-way radio from his pocket and placed it on the seat next to Alvarez. He drew a second radio from the same pocket and held it up to demonstrate.

"When I spot the target pulling into traffic, I'll make a series of clicks, like this."

Werner pressed the call button and a series of five clicks issued from Alvarez's receiver.

"That's the stand-by signal," Werner continued. "When he's en route, I'll give you a brief spoken description of where he is and where he's headed. You're to acknowledge this with three short clicks, like this, but without speaking. We don't want any police or security units monitoring the radio chatter to suspect that there's surveillance going on here."

The Toyota crossed Massachusetts Avenue and entered the western edge of Back Bay.

"I also have something for you, Frank," Alvarez offered, removing from his shirt pocket an index card with two keys taped to the back. "It's something we spoke of yesterday."

He handed the card to Werner, who examined it quickly before looking up at Alvarez. The latter stared straight ahead at traffic.

"If anything happens to me," Alvarez declared, "I want you to call my sister, Cara. If you can't reach her, call our neighbor, Rosa, who takes care of the boys when Cara is away. Their phone numbers, and also the address of the boys' school, is written on the card. The keys to my apartment are taped to the card.

"Now, do I have your word that you will keep your promise to me, Frank? That you will take care of Cara's boys like your own sons until they are old enough to make their own way in the world?"

"You have my solemn word on it, Hector, with God as my witness," Werner replied, pocketing the index card. "But nothing is going to…"

Alvarez stopped the car.

"Gloucester Street," he announced.

Without another word from either man, Werner opened the car door and stepped out onto the curb.

****

Jonah Tucker's nephew worked in an office building in East Cambridge not far from the Museum of Science. Sam Tucker's employer, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, had leased the building two years earlier to replace offices and laboratories near the main MIT campus that had been lost to flooding.

Werner had taken up Jonah's offer to meet Sam soon after settling in Boston and the two men had become good friends despite the difference in their ages. Both shared the experience of being an outsider in a notoriously inbred city where friends were not easy to acquire, though each brought a very different perspective to their friendship. Since neither had been active in the New Underground Railroad or any other anti-Unionist group while in Boston, they did not worry about being seen together in public.

Werner entered the lobby on the first floor and looked for Sam outside the Museum Store, now a branch of General Macy's, the state-owned retail chain that had kept many of Macy's and Filene's downtown stores operating, zombie-like, after they closed their doors. He found Sam browsing in the store's books section between bins of shopworn science toys that appeared desperately in need of a liquidation sale.

"Man, I could never get tired of this place," the younger man declared with boyish enthusiasm when he noticed Werner's approach.

"Glad to hear it," Werner replied, pleased to see his friend in a relaxed and happy mood. "MIT is definitely the right place for you if you can still get a kick out of this mausoleum."

Werner remembered his one and only foray into the Museum of Science several weeks after his return to Boston. Having been a frequent museumgoer when his daughters had been in school, he was distressed to see both the IMAX theater and the Hayden Planetarium closed indefinitely for repairs and the museum's entire lower level roped off due to flood damage.

What remained also disappointed him, as none of the exhibits appeared to have been updated or even cleaned since his departure from Boston nearly seven years before. With government funding scarce and private funding nearly nonexistent, nearly all of Boston's great museums, Werner discovered, had been reduced to pale shadows of their former excellence.

Werner was content to daydream for a few moments longer while Sam Tucker finished what he was reading and returned the book to the shelf. To Werner, Sam resembled both his uncle and his father in being a large, powerfully built man who had fallen off the fitness wagon. Though a varsity sprinter and hurdler as an undergraduate at Ohio State, Sam now carried an extra twenty or thirty pounds of fat on his six-foot, three-inch frame that made him resemble a well-fed bear. He wore wrinkled khakis and a denim shirt under a fleece vest, which he admitted was a virtual uniform among his fellow post-doctorate fellows. In the scientific academe, he claimed, conformity was a core virtue until one safely attained celebrity status.

Over lunch in the museum cafe, the two men talked about their lives, local events, the prospects for this year's Red Sox squad, and the occasional good-looking woman who passed by, as bachelors of all ages tend to do when their girlfriends are out of earshot.

After lunch, they walked down Land Avenue to the Charles River Reservation and continued along the river toward the Longfellow Bridge. After a while, they stopped to watch a barge pass with materials for the new levees being built further upriver. The water level was higher than Werner had ever seen it.

When they were alone, Werner asked whether Sam had been able to turn up any new leads on the Internet concerning his daughter's whereabouts.

"Not since we talked last time," the younger man replied. "First of all, it's not easy to get time on the Internet at my office. And when I do, I have to be really careful to have a good reason for anything I do that's not job-related just in case somebody asks about it later. You see, all our Internet access is electronically logged to make sure people don't give away MIT's secrets or that kind of thing."

"Or get access to information ordinary people aren't supposed to know about," Werner added.

"That, too, I suppose," Tucker replied. "Though you'd be surprised at how much is already out there once you look around. All the foreign newspapers and magazines and scientific journals, for instance. Man, there's an awful lot happening in India and Brazil and the U.K. that we never even hear about in our press. It's like we've morphed into the old Soviet Union while Brazil and India and places like that have turned into the new U.S. That ain't pretty if you're a scientist and the other guys are leaving you in the dust every time you think you have a great new research idea."

"So what do you think, Sam?" Werner persisted. "Is there anyplace you haven't looked yet where you think there might be a chance of picking something up on Marie?"

"Well, your timing is excellent. I just learned some new hacks that promise to open up entirely new vistas for my illicit career on the Internet.

"Apparently, a lot of our computer science guys have been doing some phenomenal hacking for years, right under the noses of the Thought Police. I guess I'm always the last to know because they all think I'm such a square. But a couple of my students have taken pity on me and are showing me the ropes. It's truly awesome what they can get away with."

A moment later a team of runners from the Harvard track team passed by, prompting the two men to move along. A few minutes later Werner asked Sam how his engineering work was coming along. At the time Werner had set up the lunch date, Sam had been discouraged about his prospects for promotion within the Electrical Engineering Department, and particularly about his inability to gain an assignment in the MIT institute doing plasma physics research.

"I don't even know why they bother keeping me around sometimes," Tucker complained. "Apart from teaching undergraduates and junior grad students, they don't give me any assignments at all. And the powers that be have made it clear that I'm definitely not on the fast track for a promotion. I mean, when I signed on to stay here for post-grad work, my thesis advisor virtually promised me a slot in the Plasma Science Center. Now nobody over there will even talk to me."

"Why do you suppose that's happening?" Werner inquired, puzzled at Sam's change of fortune.

Sam Tucker rolled his eyes.

"You know what happened, Frank. Dad got arrested. Somehow, though, it didn't seem to be a problem until they did the background check for my security clearance to work on classified projects. But since Dad somehow popped up in the background investigation, the Institute doesn't quite know what to do with me any more. On the one hand, I was one of their own Ph.D.'s and viewed as perhaps having some talent in the field. And, of course, it didn't hurt my cause that they're able to count me as a member of a ‘protected class’ for diversity purposes.

"On the other hand, I never joined the Party, I still belong to a church, and I went to Andover on a scholarship. Which doesn't seem so bad, except that after the Moneymen Purge, if you went to Exeter, Andover, Groton, or Choate, you might as well have been a child molester.

"So when the Administration learned that Dad had been sent to a corrective labor camp, I think they decided that I wasn't the guy they thought I was. Unlike them, I hadn't come up through the Party, I owed my success to hard work rather than to the State, and I had learned my values from my Dad, the dissident.

"Anyway, this winter I realized nothing was going to change for me unless I left MIT. So I put out some feelers. And last week I got a call from West Virginia University. No, it's not in the same league as MIT, but they do have a pretty good plasma physics program and they're willing to let me work on it. So I'd still be a post-doctoral fellow with teaching duties, but I'd be valued and I'd be able to work on what interests me. As for Morgantown, I don't have a clue what to expect. But I think I'm going to tell them yes."

Werner gave Sam a hearty slap on the back and congratulated him but at the same time felt his own heart sink at the unexpected news. He would miss his young friend in more ways than one.

"How do you feel about the move, Sam? Is this what your heart is telling you to do?" he asked.

"I think so," Tucker replied.

"When might you be leaving?"

"Not before the end of the semester. I'll probably move down there in June so I'll have time to settle in before the fall semester begins."

"That's good, Sam," Werner replied, "Because there's something else I want to talk to you about. You see, I need your help on a project that's likely to be over by the end of May, but it may require fifty to a hundred hours of concentrated work before then. There's no pay, no recognition, and it carries some serious risk. So it's something you'll need to consider very carefully. But I think you will consider it, because it involves your father…in a way."

Sam Tucker stopped walking and examined Werner carefully before looking out over the Charles River Basin and the buildings of Cambridge. Werner thought he saw the young man's eyes glisten in a way that they hadn't until now.

"Until now, Frank, you've always said that you've heard of my dad, or knew him from a distance, but you've never said that you had actually known him. So, tell me: just how well did you know my father and how were you connected with him?"

This was the question that Frank Werner had dreaded. There could be no doubt that Sam Tucker idolized his father, having absorbed his love and protection well into young adulthood, only to lose him before he was old enough to know him as a man.

His uncle Jonah, having known Uriah Tucker as a brother, had hinted to Werner more than once that he had heard of Uriah's fall from grace. But even Jonah had not wanted to believe it.

Until those final days at Kamas, virtually everyone who knew Uriah Tucker saw him as a giant, a hero, a candidate for sainthood, which is how Werner liked to recall him whenever his memory allowed him to put aside recollections of those fateful days. For Uriah had indeed been a fine man before he was corrupted.

Werner resolved anew not to say anything to son or brother about Uriah Tucker's end. It would be wrong to ruin a man's reputation in the minds of those who loved him most by revealing to them the acts of a short but terrible season. And in Uriah's defense, the pressures he had been under were immense. But what hope could exist of ever redeeming Uriah's sins if neither son nor brother knew of them? How could either of them repudiate the very weakness and error in Uriah that had permitted them to live unmolested lives, yet at the same time had enabled Fred Rocco and his lieutenants to compromise Uriah's integrity and turn him by degrees into the monster who betrayed hundreds of his fellow prisoners?

Werner did not know the answer. So he lied to Sam in the same way that he had done to Jonah.

"I felt like I knew your father because, when we were in camp together, I was once assigned to work on a project with him. In fact, it was a project much like the one I will be asking you to join. But before the project could be carried out, I was arrested and thrown into solitary and the opportunity didn't come up again."

Werner continued, glancing to either side from time to time to make sure that no one could overhear.

"Your father spent most of his life helping and defending ordinary people against the tyrannical power of the Unionist system. He was not a violent man and I don't know if he ever used a gun or a bomb. But he worked with men who did and sometimes his own actions sometimes led to violent results. The point is, your father knew that the success of his cause could probably not be achieved without violence, though he himself would not strike or kill with his own hands–"

Sam Tucker interrupted.

"If you're asking whether I'm willing to help you against the Unionists, Frank, I'm already there. Don't forget, I've been with the Railroad since I was in middle school. But if your aim is to overthrow the current regime, you're a bit late. That's what Civil War II was all about and our side lost. Most of those who've ever raised their hands against the Party are dead or in the camps. What could you or I or any team of us do that would make any difference at all?"

"We could make a very important difference to a particular group of men and, by extension, to men in similar situations across the country," Werner continued. "We could give an important measure of justice to those men and offer hope and encouragement to others that they can do the same for themselves."

"All right, Frank," Sam interrupted again. "I think I'm with you, but I don't have a lot of time before I'm expected back at the office. So I need you to tell me what the mission is and what you want me to do. Can you just, well, lay it out?"

"Okay, here it is," Werner answered uneasily, checking that they were still far enough from anyone not to be overheard. "Our mission is to carry out a sentence of death against the warden of the Corrective Labor Camp in Kamas, Utah, for crushing the Kamas rebellion of 2024. I took part in that rebellion and can testify that the warden has the blood of thousands of prisoners on his hands for the way he crushed the rebellion. That blood includes your father's.

"Your primary role on the Team will be target research: to help us track the target, detect his vulnerabilities and provide whatever information the team may need to penetrate his security, execute him, and withdraw without incident. Unless there's an emergency, you will not be called upon to participate in the execution itself. Others with the appropriate skills will see to that. But the risk to you will be the same as the risk to the rest of us. Anybody who's caught will be charged with overthrow of the government by assassination and hanged. Or worse. So, there you have it," Werner concluded. "Are you with us?"

Sam Tucker paused deliberately before responding and looked Werner straight in the eye.

"It may seem odd, Frank, but for several days I've had a strange sense that I might be chosen for some sort of special task," Sam replied with surprising composure. "I've prayed about it and I decided that, if I was called upon, my answer would be yes. So if you'll tell me exactly what you want, I'm ready to start this afternoon."

****

Werner and Tucker finished their conversation and made their way in relative silence back to Land Avenue. They were about to part when Sam Tucker suddenly stopped and seized Warner's elbow.

"Do you realize what day it is today?" he asked excitedly.

Werner drew a blank.

"Think of the most famous events in Boston's history," Sam prompted.

"Boston Tea Party?" Werner guessed. "Paul Revere's Ride?"

"No, but you're getting warm," Tucker replied. "Try again."

"Lexington and Concord? Shot heard 'round the world?"

"Bingo! In Boston it's celebrated on Patriots' Day, which comes on the third Monday in April. And that's today," Tucker pointed out. "Did you ever watch the reenactment at the Concord North Bridge?"

"Several times when my girls were in school," Werner replied. "Do they still do it?"

"Sadly, not anymore," Sam answered. "They stopped it about five years ago. No more Revolutionary War reenactments. No more statues of Founding Fathers. No more brass plaques or anything."

"They may think we'll forget," Werner allowed. "But we won't. Not people from around here, anyway. Not till the Unionists are long gone."

"Amen to that," Sam affirmed and was quickly gone.

CHAPTER 10

Wednesday, April 18, 2029,
Boston

At half past four Werner bought a jumbo iced tea at the coffee shop opposite the rear of the FEMA Building and carried it to a window stool looking south across Purchase Street just west of the garage exit. From his jacket pocket he removed a paperback novel and pretended to read it while watching for patterns in the traffic leaving the underground garage. Traffic was still light but, as five o'clock approached, the first cars to leave were the electric minicars of the government middle managers and the Ford and Nissan sedans assigned from the special GSA motor pool to senior federal officials. The vintage European and Japanese makes driven by tenants of the commercial floors would not emerge in any numbers for at least another hour.

It was just after five when Werner noticed a polished maroon Ford Galaxy sedan leave the garage to make the right turn onto Purchase Street. He could not see the driver through the car's tinted glass but was close enough to recognize the GSA license plate number as the one that Rocco had been driving for the past several days.

Werner reached into his pocket to send a short pattern of clicks on the two-way radio to Hector Alvarez, then jotted the time and place and the direction of the car's movement on a folded sheet of paper tucked inside the rear cover of his paperback. He waited in the coffee shop for a few more minutes to finish his iced tea and read a few more pages of his novel.

He had read barely more than a page when a thought emerged that had lain dormant for several days. All at once he understood that most of the assumptions he had formed the week before about how to execute the team's mission were turning out to be mistaken. At the core of his operational thinking was his counter-terrorist training while a Career Trainee in the Central Intelligence Agency some thirty years before. His Agency trainers had focused at that time on methods of Arab terrorists from the 1970s, those of the Red Brigades and Baader-Meinhof Gang during the '80s, and those of Russian and Chechen assassins during the '90s.

Most of those killers had opted for soft targets, that is, victims who were neither trained, armed, nor security-conscious. Moreover, most of the attackers had enjoyed the advantage of ample lead time, staffing, funding, and logistical support; their choice of weapons, including automatic weapons and explosives; false documents and foreign safe havens; and tolerant, open societies rather than police states within which to stalk their targets and make their escape.

By contrast, the Star Team's target was a senior State Security officer who shuttled between secure parking facilities at both home and office and had never been seen leaving either on foot. Moreover, the Star Team was under a forty-day deadline, included only four members and lacked the time and resources required to map out Rocco's daily movements in so short a time without risking discovery. Its funding and support resources were negligible. Finally, operational security principles dictated that only Werner be aware of the identity of the other team members.

So far, the Team's only weapons were a civilian semi-automatic hunting rifle and a war-surplus pistol, along with a few dozen rounds of ammunition. And unlike the terrorists against whom he had been trained, Werner and his team were neither eager to die for their cause nor so naïve or ideologically rigid as to believe that they would succeed simply because God was on their side or their cause was just or otherwise aligned with the forces of history. What each team member wanted above all was to complete the mission and simply go on with his life.

The central challenge, Werner now realized, was that Fred Rocco was not sufficiently vulnerable to the typical terrorist hit-and-run attack. His team needed more time, more surveillance coverage, more firepower, and more mobility. But the longer they watched Rocco, the greater was the risk of discovery. And to seek additional weaponry on the open market also carried unacceptable risks. What they needed was a change of plan. They needed a way to take Fred Rocco down when he was alone and vulnerable, using resources already within their grasp. And they needed it fast.

****

By the time Werner stepped out of the coffee shop onto Purchase Street, most of the big Fords and Nissans assigned to senior federal officials like Rocco had already exited the underground garage. Now a steady stream of electric minicars and aging Government Motors carpool vehicles had begun to follow. Once their bosses were gone, Werner noticed, the building seemed to empty fast. It appeared that post-capitalist office culture still observed the time-honored principle of "face time."

Werner climbed Congress Street to Franklin and headed back toward the Somerset Club through the center of downtown, taking ample time to check his back trail for possible surveillants. Once at the Club, he ate a quick supper in the kitchen with the wait staff, sorted his mail and proceeded to the bar. He had already arranged for one of the waiters to come in early to open the bar and set up for the evening. Werner thanked him and took his place behind the counter so that the waiter could eat before guests started arriving in the dining room.

Despite the sense of urgency Werner felt about the Star Team's mission, or perhaps because of it, Werner felt extraordinarily alive as he took his first orders and mixed his first drinks of the night. His euphoria, he thought, arose not only from being entrusted with a special mission, but also from having suffered uncommon hardship, surviving against impossible odds and rejoining society in the city of his arrest seven years earlier. Now, unbelievably, he found himself living not just adequately, or comfortably, but rather well. Even more than that, it now seemed possible, indeed probable, that his daughter was alive and well in England and he might be in contact with her soon. If this came to pass, Werner dreamed, his life would be complete.

But why, then, did he still wrestle so with his urge to return to Utah? Was he becoming too comfortable in Boston, too set in his ways to leave a place he had never even liked? Was he clinging too tightly, perhaps, to the position he had created for himself at the Somerset Club? Or to his customers or his friends or to Carol? Or was it merely an old man's fear of change?

If Werner had learned nothing else from his years in the camps, it was that life requires change and one must learn to not resist. When the time came for him to leave this life behind, all he could be certain of taking with him were his memories, his lessons and his spirit.

****

Less than a half hour after Werner took over the bar, one of the dining room busboys arrived with the message that Jake Hagopian wanted to see him in his second floor office. Werner asked the busboy to summon the waiter who had covered for him earlier in the evening and set off the moment he spotted the waiter cross the lobby toward the bar.

When Werner entered the office, Hagopian was rooting distractedly among stacks of paper covering his massive oak desk. He raised his eyes at Werner's approach and appeared to forget what he had been doing.

"Come on in, Frank," the older man greeted him. "How's business tonight?"

"Busy for a Wednesday," Werner replied as he took a seat opposite Jake's desk. "It looks like April will be terrific month for the bar, Jake. How about the rest of the operation?"

Despite Hagopian's apparent preoccupation with misplaced documents, he appeared to be in an expansive mood.

"Which operation do you mean?" Hagopian replied. "If you mean building materials, business couldn't be better. Everybody seems to have renovation plans, the architects are busy and I'm up to my ears in requests for quotes. But if you mean the restaurant business, I tell you it's been a headache from Day Number One. I'm stinking tired of it and I wish I could get out of it once and for all. 'Who will rid me of this turbulent feast?' Wasn't it Shakespeare who said that?"

"I don't think Shakespeare wrote any plays about Henry II, Jake. But it's certainly the kind of line he could have written," Werner replied genially.

"Of course it is, and you know what I'm arriving at. Look here, Frank, I know we talked about this just last week, but I'm serious about wanting you to take over the Club. I'm tired of the headaches and the red ink and I want to take out my money and put it back into building materials where it will do me some good. What do you say we make a deal, eh?"

"I'm truly flattered, Jake, but I couldn't buy the Club even if I could afford it. It's not legally possible."

"Anything is legally possible with the corrupt bastards who run this city," Hagopian rejoined. "And yes, you can afford it if I say you can afford it. Open your mind, Frank. I think you've got some kind of channel vision about this and it's standing between you and success.

"Look, I'll sell you the Club on terms. I'll even accept your note. All I ask is that I don't have to invest any more than I've put into the business already and that over time you'll start paying me back out of the profits. You have a real knack for the club business, Frank. You'll be turning a profit from the get-up-and-go."

Werner chuckled.

"It's not that I don't believe in the Club, Jake. I love the place and I'd be proud to own it. But I can't own anything in Boston that requires legal registration because I don't have a residence permit. The only place I'm legal is Utah."

"Okay, so while we work on getting you a residence permit, we keep everything titled in my name except the cash and the trade accounts. How would that work for you?" Hagopian persisted. "We can handle it any way that will make you comfortable. Listen, Frankie, you know I won't cheat you. So let's nip that idea right in the bud."

"I know you're trying to help, Jake. You've been great to me and I trust you completely. But a residence permit is not like a liquor license or a building permit. You can't just pay off somebody at City Hall. It requires clearance from the DSS in Washington, and the last thing I want is for the DSS to know I'm here. So, please don't go and try to fix anything for me without my permission, okay?"

"Oh, I would never go around your back, Frankie," the owner assured him. "But if you really want something, you just can't just give it up every time some roadblock gets in your face. So, don't say no yet. Say you'll think about it and get back to me."

"Okay, I'll think about it and get back to you," Werner repeated with a gentle laugh.

"How long do you need to think about it?" Hagopian pressed.

Werner gave it a moment's thought.

"A month," he replied. "I should know by then."

"Fair enough, Frankie Boy," Jake Hagopian answered, rubbing his palms together. "Here's the deal. In a month, either I'm selling the Club to you, or you're selling the bar to me so I can sell the Club in one piece to somebody else. Am I fair or foul?"

"You're always fair, Jake," Werner answered.

"Okay, then, let's shake it up," Hagopian declared, holding out his hand to Werner. And with that, the two men closed their deal.

****

When Werner returned to the bar, every stool was taken and customers were lined up three deep at the rail. Steve, the waiter he had left temporarily in charge, appeared rattled by the surge in orders and stepped aside for Werner to respond to the customers who remained unserved.

"You're going to need more help if this keeps up," the waiter commented. "I'd be happy to move over to the bar full time if you'd like. The dining room has plenty of guys who need the work and Jake says the move is okay with him if you approve."

"I may take you up on that, Steve. Let's see how it goes this weekend, okay?"

The waiter nodded hopefully.

"And by the way, Hank Oshiro's here," Steve added, pointing to the far end of the bar. "I haven't served him yet. I thought you might want to talk to him first."

Werner's expression grew hard.

"Can you cover for me again?" he asked Steve, spotting Oshiro deep in conversation with a thirty-something in a banker's suit and a considerably younger blonde wearing a short black cocktail dress.

"Sure, leave it to me," the waiter replied.

Werner moved to where Hank Oshiro sat at the end of the bar, serving drinks along the way to a half dozen thirsty customers before addressing Oshiro.

"What will you have tonight, Hank?" he asked with an avuncular smile.

"Double bourbon on the rocks," Oshiro replied. "Give me whatever brand you're pushing."

"Oleg tells me you've got a new car," Werner remarked. "Congratulations, Hank. Business must be good these days."

"The car's not exactly new but they cleaned it up pretty nice for me. And, man, is it fun to drive again! It's just like the old days–cruisin' down the highway in my own set of wheels, listening to the old tunes. I feel like a kid again!"

"That's because you are a kid, Hank."

Werner filled an old-fashioned glass with ice cubes and poured in four fingers of house bourbon.

"How did you swing it?" he continued, sharing Oshiro's enthusiasm. "Since when did they start allowing illegal businesses to take tax write-offs for cars?"

"The times they are a-changin', Frank. There's a guy I know who's really good with electronics. He's getting components that haven't been seen on the market in years. I think they smuggle them in from India or someplace. Anyway, he and his partner take old cars whose electronics are totally fried and fix them up with new EMP-hardened electronics packages.

"People are going back and restoring cars that were sizzled in the EMP wars and they're selling them at really affordable prices. Affordable for me, anyway. I hear some people are even picking up hulks from the side of the road and shipping them overseas to get reconditioned or chopped up for parts. What was just a hunk of scrap iron a few months ago is now worth something. And the government has been looking the other way because of the foreign currency from the exports. Tell me, Frank, is this a great country or what?"

"And you're able to get gas for it?" Werner replied on a skeptical note. "How were you able to score a ration card?"

"Ration cards? We don't need no stinkin' ration cards!" Oshiro glowered suddenly, imitating the Mexican bandito in the old Bogart film, Treasure of the Sierra Madre. "Actually, Frank, there's plenty of gas out there if you're willing to pay a premium for it. And these days I can afford it. Business is booming! Cannabis is b-a-a-a-c-k!"

"Hey, not so loud in here," Werner chided his young friend with a look of mock surprise and a sidelong glance toward the thirty-something in the banker's suit and his blonde girlfriend.

Oshiro raised his hands as if in surrender and took another sip of bourbon.

"Say, Hank, would you mind coming with me for a minute?" Werner asked abruptly, motioning toward the dining room. "I need to talk to you about something. Wait till I leave the bar, then follow me into the kitchen, okay?"

"Busted already?" Oshiro protested. "Not fit to associate with the regular clientele? You're a hard man, Frank. Can I at least bring my drink?"

"Sure, bring it," Werner replied without looking back as he started toward the dining room.

When Oshiro arrived at the kitchen door, Werner took him into the manager's office and switched on a radio before closing the door behind them.

"Sorry to drag you away from all the fun, but before you get too excited about your brilliant commercial future, there's something I'd like to show you," Werner began as he raised a leg to sit on a corner of the heavy oak desk. "Here, hold out your hand."

"Why?" Oshiro challenged, no longer smiling.

"Just do it. You'll see."

Hank Oshiro leaned forward slowly from the soft leather armchair opposite the desk and extended his right hand toward the older man, who took it and pressed something into the palm. Upon seeing the paper disc with the five-pointed star carefully drawn in black ink, Oshiro grew pale.

"Man, don't ever play a joke like that on me again. Not ever, I mean it."

"It's no prank," Werner answered. "It's from the Kamas Star Committee. They reconvened one last time. They've asked me to form a team."

"A Star Team? Here?" Oshiro blurted out in anger as much as surprise. "You've got to be nuts!"

Werner turned up the volume on the radio.

"We're not in Kamas anymore, Frank," Oshiro continued, lowering his voice and completely missing his inadvertent pun. "The revolt's over and the good guys lost. Hell, the camp doesn't even exist. Don't bring it back."

"And the camps that didn't revolt? Have they been closed?" Werner asked without emotion. "And has the CLA stopped dragging in new prisoners to replace the ones they worked to death?"

"You know they haven't, Frank, but you and I aren't going to change it. So, whatever craziness you're planning, I'll thank you to leave me out of it."

"Oh, so you're for the Unionists now," Werner mocked. "All that rage in you against the Party nomenklatura and the New Class: all is forgiven, eh? Now that business is good and you've got your wheels, life is sweet again. Live and let live. Kamas was just an unfortunate misunderstanding."

"Don't go there, Frank," Oshiro warned through clenched teeth. "I hate the Party as much as you do and I haven't forgotten Kamas for a minute. But you seem to forget that one of your Star Teams came after me once. Yeah, they held their kangaroo court late one night and roasted me real good. It must have made them feel so righteous to send out a team to whack a poor slob like me who made the stupid mistake of accepting a favor from the Wart. Only I never betrayed anyone, and thank God, the team was called off before I was hit. But what did any of those teams really accomplish? And why didn't they send one after Whiting or Chambers or the Warden? Why not whack the people who turned all those dumb slobs into stool pigeons? That kind of Starcom might have made sense to me. If they ever get around to it, let me know."

"Good, then. So you're in," Werner declared with the trace of a smile.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The team is going to do exactly what you've proposed. We're going to hit the Warden. Here. In Boston."

For the second time the blood seemed to drain from Hank Oshiro's face.

"Rocco? In Boston?" he asked in disbelief. "Are you shitting me?"

"I've seen him up close and personal," Werner replied. "They even announced his new job in the newspaper. You can look it up."

"Holy Shit," Oshiro exclaimed as the reality began to sink in. "If he's here, we can't let him get away. How big is your team?"

"Five, including the two of us."

"And how do you see your chances? I mean, do you stand a chance of getting away with it or is this some kind of suicide mission?"

"I don't do suicide missions," Werner declared. "We're all going to walk away and go on to live happy, productive lives."

"Fine, then. At the risk of seeming fickle, I take back everything bad I said about Star Teams," Oshiro announced with a wry smile. "If we're going after Rocco, you can count me in."

"Tremendous!" Werner replied. "We'll meet tomorrow morning to read you in on the plan. Is ten okay?"

"Yeah, I can do it," Oshiro replied after a quick look at his watch.

"What's more, you'll have to stop coming to the Club. From now on, we can't be seen together. If you want to meet, call me or leave a message saying that you want to come over to my place. Whatever time you give on the phone, we'll meet one hour before in the coffee shop near your flat on Commonwealth. Got it?"

Oshiro nodded.

"How about the rest of the team?" he asked. "Do I know any of them?"

"Sorry, Hank, but I can't tell you that. We're going to keep everything compartmentalized until the last possible moment. For now, I'll be your only contact."

Oshiro laughed and looked around the room.

"Bummer. I'm going to miss this place."

****

An hour after Hank Oshiro left the Somerset Club by the alley door, Werner noticed a short, slightly built man in a tweed jacket and bow tie walk into the lobby. From behind his owlish, horn-rimmed glasses, Harvey Konig's eyes swept the room as if he were searching for someone.

He turned toward the dining room and for a few moments dropped out of sight. When he returned, Konig entered the bar and seated himself at a stool near the door. Werner noticed at once that Konig, while projecting energy and vitality on his previous visit, now seemed to convey a listlessness that reminded Werner of an exhausted addict coming down from a high. He recalled Hank Oshiro's remark the week before about having sold his entire stock of Ambien and Valium that night and wondered if Konig could be such a prodigious abuser of these drugs that he had run through them in less than a week.

"Welcome back, Harvey," Werner greeted him. "What would you like to drink?"

"An Old Fashioned would be just the thing," Konig answered with a bonhomie that seemed less than genuine.

"Jimmy style?"

"Yes, that's the ticket," Konig agreed.

While Werner muddled some freshly cut lemon peel into a mixture of sugar and aromatic bitters, he watched Konig look over his shoulder repeatedly. When he delivered the completed drink to his customer, Werner noticed that two strangers had entered the room.

Both were stocky linebacker types with thick necks and shoulders encased in cheap gray suits. Werner sized them up right away as federals, possibly DSS or FBI, though perhaps affiliated with one of the minor-league federal security teams like Treasury or Energy. They slithered across the room to a vacant table and set to work burning a hole in the back of Konig's tweed jacket with their stares.

Konig saw them, too, and reached out compulsively every few seconds for the bowl of peanuts before him as if eating enough of them might make the two gumshoes disappear. The former professor then launched into a wandering monologue about his social life in London, his flat in Mayfair, his offices in the City and the important personages he knew on both sides of the Atlantic.

Then, without any logical transition, he dredged up memories of the old Somerset Club, before the Events, when he was a rising star at MIT and took every opportunity to dine out with clients and colleagues.

Werner humored Konig by appearing to listen while he took drink orders and filled them for patrons who bellied up to the bar on either side of Konig. The visiting moneyman ordered a second Old Fashioned and nursed it slowly while he rambled on about the hallowed financial institutions of Old Boston. Apparently oblivious of crossing the frontier into dangerous political territory, he leaned over to Werner and offered in a conspiratorial voice that the recent growth in the Unionist economy was unsustainable.

"Their economists couldn't manage their way out of a paper bag," Konig asserted. "The only thing they know how to do is steal. First it was from the taxpayers, then the corporations, and finally the foreign debt holders. They taxed, regulated, inflated, and nationalized the middle class all the way to serfdom, and now they say they want to nurture a private sector again. Believe me, Frank, as surely as the sun rises in the east, the moment the business sector gets on its feet again, the Party will strip it bare. If you have any money at all, keep it buried under the mattress."

Konig went through the second Old Fashioned more quickly than the first and ordered a third. Werner wondered how Konig's constitution would handle the combination of alcohol and prescription drugs, if indeed he were consuming everything he had bought from Hank Oshiro. By now, Konig appeared to have forgotten about the two men in the cheap gray suits who kept their eyes fixated on him.

Konig drew Werner's attention to a foursome of elderly patrons in a corner booth, all former members of the original Somerset Club, dressed in tweeds and gray flannel trousers closely resembling his own.

"I know those men," Konig claimed. "They were all big fund managers when I was a professor. If they still have any money left to spend, I suspect it's because they supported the President-for-Life before he was elected and were too blind or stupid to leave the country when they had the chance. The Party certainly wouldn't let old-line Moneymen like them hold onto their pre-Events loot and live like Boston Brahmins unless they first sold out every free-market principle they ever had. Tell me, Frank, do you know the original meaning of fascism?"

Werner looked both ways and was relieved to see that nobody appeared to be paying attention to Konig.

"Mussolini called it the Corporate State," the professor continued. "The idea was to unite government and corporate power under a single leader by controlling the private owners of capital. Today they call themselves Unionists, but what they aimed for was pure fascism. And by bringing together the most rapacious individuals from both public and private sectors, they succeeded in hijacking the federal government while everybody else was busy fighting wars, financial panics, epidemics, and natural disasters.

"If you read your ancient history, that's how republics always end: in bloody dictatorship. It starts out with someone like Augustus and degenerates from Tiberias to Caligula to Nero. If the President-for-Life was our Augustus, then I say, brace yourself for what's to come."

Harvey Konig finished the last of his drink and drew some bills from his wallet to cover the tab. Straightening his bow tie, he tentatively extended one foot toward the floor, then the other, while keeping a hand on the stool for balance.

"Take care of yourself, Professor," Werner cautioned, noticing Konig's unsteadiness. "Would you like me to call you a cab?"

"No, I think I'll walk, thank you," Konig replied, drawing himself up to his full height. "I need time alone to think."

"As you like, Professor, but it looks like you have company whether you want it or not. Do you know the two men who followed you in?"

"Yes, though not personally," Konig answered. "But don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

And without giving Werner or the government men a second look, Harvey Konig strode out into the lobby.

The moment Konig stood to leave, one of the gumshoes paid the closest waitress while the other rose to follow his mark out of the bar. When they were gone, the first gumshoe, a compact bullet of a man with a crew cut and a bulldog sort of face, approached the bar.

"Are you the owner here?" he asked Werner.

"The owner is upstairs in his office," Werner replied evenly. "Would you like to talk to him?"

Suddenly the man's head twitched and Werner guessed that he was receiving instructions through an earphone. He refocused his attention and gave Werner a menacing scowl.

"Not now. Maybe some other time. Meanwhile, tell your owner to make sure that everybody's papers are in good order. You know, just in case someone downtown takes an interest in the place."

****

Despite a promising open, the crowd at the Somerset Club thinned out after nine o'clock and the bar was quiet by eleven. Jake closed the dining room early and Werner set out for the Park Street T station well before midnight.

As he walked along Boston Common and turned up the collar of his trench coat against the cold wet wind, he had an uneasy feeling. Though his recruitment of Hank Oshiro had gone well, the appearance of Harvey Konig and the two government agents unnerved him. The assignment he had accepted from the Star Committee was no longer an inchoate idea. It had become concrete and increasingly complex. With each day he had more decisions to make, more obstacles to overcome, more responsibilities to shoulder. He was well past the point of no return, since the mere discussion of their conspiracy to kill Fred Rocco was sufficient to hang them all, even if they never fired a shot.

For the first time in many months, Werner had the feeling of being completely alone. On a whim, he looked for a break in the fence and entered it. Taking shelter under a massive oak, he bowed his head and folded his hands in a way that was long unfamiliar to him.

"I need your help," he began in a soft undertone. "I don't see a way to do what's being asked of me. Just how am I supposed to pull it off? If you really want me to do this thing, could you give me a sign? Just show me the next step or two and I'll take it from there. After all, this is your plan, not mine. I didn't request any of it. All I ask is this: show me the way. Please. Amen."

CHAPTER 11

Flashback: Mid-April, 2026
Mactung Mine, Yukon Territory

The twilight sky appeared a sickly yellow-orange in the glare of the sodium vapor lights surrounding the entrance to the Mactung mine and its nearby tungsten mill. In the frigid air of the Mackenzie Mountains, the clouds of steam rising from the facility gave the place a hellish tinge, as if the depths of the earth were smoldering beneath it.

A guard in a white jumpsuit shouted at the prisoner heading the formation. A few meters behind, Werner turned to look back at the mine entrance. He and the other three dozen prisoners had just finished their twelve-hour shift and were headed up the hill back to the fenced enclosure where the prisoners lived across the road from the miners' barracks and engineers' apartments.

The mine's civilian staff, which included managers, engineers, geologists, assayers, mine and mill supervisors, and most of the equipment operators, worked on three-week shifts, flying in and out from the Macmillan Pass Airstrip. But the prisoners, nearly all of whom worked underground as miners, drillers, mill laborers, and maintenance workers, worked continuously, with only a half day off on Sundays. Officially they were not Mactung employees, but contract workers on loan from the Corrective Labor Administration's W74 camp. In reality they were slave labor.

The W74 camp was named after the element tungsten, or wolframite, for which W is the chemical symbol and which occupies position 74 in the periodic table. As prisoners sentenced to hard labor in a corrective labor camp, they were assigned as contract labor to the mine, and their wages were assigned to the C.L.A. as restitution to the state, which remained responsible for their custody and maintenance.

Werner's shift ran from seven a.m. to seven p.m. Upon completing their work, the men were marched directly to the dining hall where they were allowed one hour to eat before returning to their barracks. After another hour the lights were put out. Owing to the long workday and the strenuous nature of their labor, most prisoners used their hour of leisure to do personal chores, read, socialize, or play cards. When the lights went out, nearly all fell asleep within minutes except for a few young and exceptionally energetic prisoners who continued to talk or play cards by the light of a pilfered flashlight or miner's headlamp.

Tonight Werner's dinner was a starchy stew fortified with caribou meat shot by one of the geologists and contributed to the prison camp as a humanitarian gesture. But for the frequent supplements of game meat, the nutritional content of the prisoners' rations would not have sufficed to cover the caloric requirements of hard physical labor in the mine and the arctic climate.

After dinner, Werner sat on his bunk and watched the wraithlike prisoners around him prepare for bed. With few exceptions, they did not talk to each other or even look each other in the eye unless in pique at some petty infringement of their personal space or in resentment over some imagined or bygone offense. As Werner had come to learn since arriving at W74, when men have been reduced to the level of naked survival, no camaraderie or civility can long endure. Under such inhuman conditions, even the strongest human ties erode and dissolve in the solvent of animal instinct.

Tonight, however, Werner felt neither empathy nor antipathy toward his fellow prisoners. He was beyond feeling. All that remained was a curiosity about the meaning of it all. How had it come to this? Despite his best efforts, his options had been reduced to two: die or stay alive long enough for his luck to change. Beyond those two choices, his fate was no longer in his hands.

Yet now Werner could no longer deny that his life force was dwindling away. At the time of his arrest in Boston he had weighed in at a muscular 220 pounds. Upon his transfer to the Yukon following the Kamas revolt he was still lean and strong at 185. Though his barracks lacked a scale, Werner now doubted that he weighed much more than 160 and felt his legs and arms weaken perceptibly day by day.

The prisoners at W74 hailed from all over the United States and Canada, plus some POWs from China, the Middle East, and Russia, and they represented a wide variety of backgrounds and occupations. The one thing they had in common was their arrest for political or security-related offenses. For this they had been singled out even after entering the labor camp system.

Those who remained outspokenly opposed to the Unionist Regime became targets for special abuse. Since they were considered incapable of rehabilitation or reentry into society, regardless of their original sentences, the regime always found reason to extend one's release date so that it appeared hopelessly out of reach. For such prisoners, including Werner, the only possible outcomes were capitulation, escape, death, or dogged survival long enough to outlast the regime.

On this frigid Yukon night in the cruel Arctic wasteland, Werner's faith in his power to survive was close to collapse. Unless something happened soon to change his fate, he would expire one day while carrying a heavy load or climbing a ladder. Or perhaps he would simply fail to awake in the morning. Or he might grow sick and be sent to the dispensary, where a nurse would euthanize him under the guise of treatment if he failed to recover within a week of admission. Werner recalled Kubler-Ross's five stages of grief and grew frightened when he realized that he was long past denial, anger, and bargaining, instead moving rapidly from depression into acceptance.

Frank Werner had been in the camp system long enough to know that, though the system itself was a crime against humanity, not every person in the DSS or the CLA was evil. Rather than hate them as a class, he preferred not to think of such people at all and would sooner forgive even a monster like Whiting or Rocco than take revenge against either one of them. In the three years since his arrest, he had come to learn that life demands a steady movement forward to sustain itself and that hatred tends to retard it. So now the wistfulness he felt about the end of his life was mainly over what he had failed to do rather than what had been done to him.

Werner removed from an inside pocket in his jumpsuit a chunk of bread that he had saved from dinner. He tore off a bite-sized morsel and let it dissolve in his mouth. This was his favorite moment in the day, one of the few when he was not hungry and could take the time to savor his food. He had torn off another morsel and had opened his mouth when he felt a powerful hand snatch the chunk of bread from him. It was a lithe, rail-thin, Hispanic youth who slept at the far end of the barracks with a dozen or more other young prisoners functioning as a gang. Werner watched him scurry off to the safety of his corner, bread in hand. Normally, Werner's adrenaline would have impelled him to chase the thief down and recover the stolen food without regard to risk, but tonight he just let it happen.

To allow such a thing was not healthy, he told himself. This is the behavior pattern of a last-legger, who sees his end approaching and not long after stops talking, stops eating, barely goes through the motions at work and then one day gives away his most prized possessions, even his last reserves of food. When others see this, they either shun the last-legger out of superstitious fear or they exploit him without mercy, closing in to take the man's last stash of food or smokes or spare socks or brazenly steal the boots and socks right off his feet. Was his own decline already so obvious that it had prompted someone to steal his bread?

Without thinking, Werner's hand darted inside his coveralls to probe the other inside pocket for the carefully wrapped GI-ration chocolate bar that a soldier had tossed to him from a truck while on the North Canol Road a few months before. Since then, he had preserved the chocolate and turned to it for reassurance like a talisman whenever his spirits were low. To eat it would be pure bliss. To even think of eating it was normally sufficient to help him climb out of a depression.

If ever there were a time when he might feel compelled to take a piece, it was now. But upon considering it, Werner realized that he had no appetite. For the first time he could recall, he did not crave the chocolate. Okay, he thought, he wouldn't eat it just now. But what if he never got the craving back and something happened to him first? It would be a crime to waste the chocolate. Yet he had no friends left to whom he would want to give it.

The overhead lights flickered three times, marking the two-minute signal before lights out. Werner felt compelled to decide about the chocolate now, before darkness fell and someone attempted to steal it. The decision loomed large before him and represented a sort of divide between survivor and last-legger. He brought the bar halfway out of the pocket and glanced surreptitiously inside his jumpsuit. Why was it so hard to decide?

All at once Werner had the sense that someone was coming up behind him. He wheeled around and was startled to see another prisoner of about his own age approach from the next bunk. Though the man's face looked familiar, he could not recall where he had seen it before.

"What's the matter, Frank, don't you recognize me anymore?" the man asked with the tolerant smile of a friend.

Werner looked at him and wondered if his brain had ceased to function properly. He could see the stranger's face but it seemed somehow out of place; he could not fit it into his usual frame of reference. The man was only slightly shorter than he and was barrel-chested and thick-shouldered, yet trim at the waist. By his receding hairline and weathered complexion, Werner judged him to be nearly his own age. His eyes showed the spark of intelligence and in them Werner detected humor, self-assurance, and a complete lack of fear.

"Don't you remember our time at Kamas?" the stranger probed gently. "In the brickyard. We worked on the same team for a while, remember?"

Werner could picture the brickyard and he could picture the man as younger, stronger, and more tanned. They had indeed worked together recycling used bricks.

"You're Dave Lewis, aren't you?" Werner declared with the barest trace of a smile. "My God, what are you doing here at Mactung?"

"I've been here as long as you have, Frank. Don't you remember the hike along the North Canol Road from C227? I'm bunking on a different floor now and we've been working different shifts, so we haven't crossed paths much lately, but I still keep an eye out for you. Actually, I came to see you because I saw you earlier and had a bad feeling about you. Really, Frank, you don't look so hot. Are you feeling okay?"

"Oh, I'm a little tired, I suppose," Werner lied reflexively. "End of the day, you know. But I'll be okay in the morning. I always am. You'll see."

"You were never a good liar, Frank. I saw you with that chocolate bar and I could sense what you were thinking: 'Do I eat it or do I give it away?' That's not healthy, Frank. That bar is yours to hold onto until you walk out of here. You always said it's going to be your freedom celebration. And it still is. Mark my words."

"And when will that be, Dave?" Werner replied irritably. "A man doesn't last forever up here, you know. Drilling is hard work. Damned hard for an old man like me. I thought I was done with manual labor forty years ago."

Lewis sat on the bunk close to Werner and spoke softly in Werner's ear.

"Actually, Frank, there's a very good chance that you will be done with it soon, and not the way you may expect. I have some important news that I wanted you to be the first to know, considering your–"

At that moment the lights went dark and Werner heard the solid thud of the door being bolted shut from outside. In a far corner of the barracks, the young Hispanic prisoners continued their card game illuminated by the bluish light of an LED lamp. Werner's nearest bunkmates were among them, leaving the two older men alone.

"Considering my what?" Werner demanded.

"Oh, never mind, Frank. My point is that there's another amnesty coming, much like the one three years ago. And when they announce it, they're also going to announce the mothballing of both the underground tungsten mines that use prison labor. Since the Chinese started selling tungsten again, the world price has crashed and the underground mines up here have become uneconomical. Only the open pit operations are being kept open. The Mactung mine will go on shutdown at the end of this week.

"But here's where it gets interesting," Lewis went on. "Most of the prisoners are being sent back to C227 for reassignment to other northern labor sites. But–get this–those who qualify for the amnesty will be sent to the Lower 48 to be processed for release. For release!"

"That amnesty rumor has been around for months, Dave," Werner challenged. "Even if it were true, how could it possibly apply to us? The DSS wouldn't amnesty a Kamas rebel in a thousand years. What possible difference does it make if we die here at Mactung or in some other frozen hole?"

"Listen closely, Frank," Lewis continued in an encouraging voice. "Something quite remarkable has happened and, as far as I know, it may only affect you and me, since we're just about the only Kamas rebels left at W74. Don't ask me how I know this, but after Rocco brought the tanks into Kamas to crush the revolt, he was desperate to cover up what had happened in case somebody higher up had second thoughts about it. So when he rounded up the rebel leadership and packed us off to the Yukon, his goal was to make us all disappear. And apparently, he had the bright idea of sending us north with empty transfer files. That meant the new camp commandants would be unaccountable for us and could do whatever they wanted.

"Meanwhile, back in Washington, Rocco's backers purged the DSS and CLA security files for all the Kamas rebels, dead or alive, back to the date of their arrest. So if a relative inquired about any of us, the official story was that there was no record of the prisoner having ever been in DSS custody. And if anyone inquired about a revolt at Kamas, the story was that the camp closed long before the revolt could have happened.

"Generally speaking," Lewis concluded, "the plan appears to have been a success. By now, very few of the rebels sent to camps in the Yukon or the NWT are still alive. And those who are can no longer be linked to Kamas by any official record. Which means that, for purposes of the amnesty, the administration here has no record that you and I were ever rebels at Kamas or anywhere else. Do you follow me?

"I think so," Werner answered tentatively. "But the security screws at C227 seemed to know exactly who we were when we got there. From Day One they sent us off on one punishment detail after other. And when we didn't die off fast enough they sent the survivors up here to W74. Why wouldn't the W74 administration have known about us, too?"

"Maybe they did," Lewis conceded. "But it was back-channel information, nothing official. So now that W74 is closing and the Commandant and his senior team have all flown back to Juneau to scramble for new assignments, our fates are in the hands of a TDY reassignment team from Juneau who have probably never even heard of Kamas. My friend, I'd say our chances have never looked better."

Werner suddenly felt his back stiffen as a warm glow appeared from nowhere in the pit of his stomach. It was as if a stream of energy was flowing from somewhere near the base of his spine straight up through the top of his skull. The feeling lasted only a few seconds but left his body oddly energized and his mind completely clear.

When Werner spoke again he felt as if he had been rested, fed, and watered in the course of only a few seconds.

"What do you know about the terms of the amnesty?" Werner pressed. "Is it even possible we could qualify?"

"If it's at all like the last amnesty–and I'm told it is–" Lewis replied hopefully, "it will apply to all prisoners above the age of sixty–some over fifty–five–who have been sentenced for political crimes other than capital offenses and have less than five years remaining on their sentences."

"And you think the CLA would actually let someone out of its clutches once he's seen what we've seen?"

"Yes, I do," Lewis affirmed. "A new day seems to be dawning in the Unionist utopia. There's been a thaw now that no new war is on the horizon and the federal coffers are empty again. The Party doesn't want to keep quite so many political prisoners unless it can make a buck off them.

"Tell me, if you were the CLA and you had a surplus of prisoners in their fifties and sixties who were too worn down to grind out a hard day's work, wouldn't you be inclined to scratch them off your roster?"

"Sure, that would make perfect sense," Werner acknowledged. "But it's not how the corrective labor system works. The CLA I know gets rid of slackers by working them to death or putting them to sleep. When they've got a guy at the end of his rope, why give him a free pass?"

"Maybe you're right, Frank," Lewis responded soberly. "But that's not how they wrote the rules. All I can say is, if you want to try your luck, the eligibility list will be posted outside the dining hall tomorrow morning before breakfast. Everyone on the list will be called into the dispensary for a medical exam and an interview. If you pass, you'll be put on a truck for Ross River the same day and from there to Whitehorse, Juneau, and points south. So, whatever the odds, Frank, I suggest you make it down to the dining hall first thing tomorrow and get in line for your interview. And, more than that, before your head hits the pillow tonight, say your goddamned prayers."

Dave Lewis gave Werner a brotherly pat on his bony shoulder and rose to leave. Before Werner could respond, Lewis had disappeared into the darkness.

As he lay back in the bunk and stared into the darkness, Werner felt bewildered by the news Lewis had delivered. While he did not take issue with his friend's facts or reasoning, he simply could not bring himself to believe the far-fetched notion that he might actually have a chance to leave Mactung alive within twenty-four hours. He reached into his inner breast pocket, caressed the GI chocolate bar between his fingers and tried to remember when he had last known the taste of chocolate.

****

Werner opened his eyes in the darkness the moment he heard the bolt slide back on the barracks door at five a.m. Unlike most mornings, when a thorough rousting from a bunkmate was required to retrieve him from the depths of sleep, he swung his legs onto the wooden floor and slipped his feet into his rubber boots. Within a few moments he was dressed and the first man on his floor into the washroom. From there he made a beeline outside to the notice board on the wall of the mess hall.

In the yellowish glare of the sodium vapor lamps, he scanned the freshly posted list of prisoners summoned to report to the dispensary that morning in lieu of work duty. His heart leaped with joy at finding his own name on the list, then he checked it again to make sure his eyes had not tricked him. When he could no longer doubt his good fortune, he entered the mess hall and wolfed down a meal of gritty oatmeal, buttered toast, and weak tea. When the dispensary opened at six, he was third in a queue of forty or fifty men.

As the list had not disclosed the reason for their summons to the dispensary, most of the prisoners appeared tense and apprehensive. A call-up on short notice was generally an evil omen for a prisoner. Special punishments and penalties often followed such a call; rewards and advantages rarely did. Werner wondered if he were the only prisoner in the queue to be aware of both the amnesty and the camp closing. If he were, and if the eligibility interview could mean the difference between life and death, he dared not say a word for fear of spoiling his chances.

When his turn came to enter the dispensary, a guard with a short-barreled machine pistol opened the door from within and escorted him to one of a dozen semi-enclosed examination cubicles. There an orderly recorded his height and weight, took his pulse and blood pressure reading, drew a blood sample, then handed him a plastic cup for a urine sample and pointed him to the lavatory nearby. When Werner returned with his vessel filled exactly to the white line, he found the orderly waiting for him with an elderly doctor Werner had never seen before.

The physical exam was thorough but brief. After peering into all of Werner's bodily orifices and poking or palpating all the customary spots, the doctor and the orderly abruptly left the room. As neither of them had gasped in horror, raised an eyebrow in alarm, or shaken his head in disapproval, Werner guessed that he had passed.

Next the guard escorted him down the hall to the dispensing room, where his interviewer sat at a gray metal desk with a portable file box within easy reach. Though the room seemed warm enough to Werner, the official wore a quilted field jacket liner over an insulated flight suit.

Since he didn't look up from his reading, Werner seized the opportunity to take a long, close look at him. The man appeared to be in his early thirties, neither a security nor a combat type–more likely a clerk or an administrator. His expression was uncaring but not vengeful, consistent with ignorance of Werner's past as a Kamas rebel.

Werner opened his mouth to speak but the official waved him absently toward a plastic chair across from the desk. A guard with a machine pistol slung over his shoulder stood a few paces behind the desk to one side.

"Name?" the official began.

"Frank Gilbert Werner."

"Serial Number?"

"W4605."

"Date and place of birth?"

"March 19, 1971. Grosse Point, Michigan."

"Sentence?"

"Five years, seditious conspiracy," Werner answered.

"Sentence date?"

"2023. I think it was around April 10. It'll be in the file."

The interviewer shot Werner an annoyed look.

"Location of sentencing court?"

"Boston."

"Time served?"

"Three years plus. I don't have the dates," Werner admitted.

Another peeved look from the man at the desk.

"Where did you transfer in from?"

"From C227 on the Canol Road. That was last year."

"And before that?"

"Kamas, Utah," Werner replied.

The official did not even blink.

"Before that?" he continued mechanically.

"Just some transfer facilities en route to Utah from Boston.

"Any disciplinary offenses?" the official asked, examining Werner more carefully now.

"You mean, here at Mactung?" Werner asked.

"Anywhere."

"No," Werner lied.

"You're sure of that?" the official probed. "Why would you make the distinction unless you were disciplined somewhere outside of Mactung?"

"I had a DUI conviction once back in Boston. Sorry, I wasn't sure what you meant."

"You're sure now? No disciplinary offenses since you were sentenced in 2023?"

"None," Werner replied with a poker face.

"Have you completed your medical exam?"

"Yes. Just now."

"Since arriving in the Yukon, have you served in any other facility in the Yukon, NWT, or Canada, even for a short time?"

"Only C227."

"Then how do you explain the absence of a transfer file?"

Werner's blood pressure spiked. He was thrown off guard by the illogic of the question and did not know how to answer without revealing that he knew more than he was supposed to. He gave the official a puzzled look.

"I've never seen my personnel file. So I have no idea what's in it or what could have happened to it."

"When exactly did you leave Kamas?" the interviewer pressed on.

"It was July of '24," Werner replied after a barely noticeable hesitation. "Sometime late in the month, I think. I don't know the date."

Unsure of how to respond and worried at being caught in a lie, Werner had resorted to telling the truth.

"No, that couldn't be right. Our records show that the Kamas camp was closed in late '23. How then do you account for your whereabouts during the first half of 2024 until July when you say you left the camp to come north?"

Werner gave the man a bitter smile.

"I'm just a prisoner," he replied. "I go wherever they take me. Why don't you tell me where I was? You're the one with the records."

"Hold the attitude, prisoner," the official admonished. "Our records start with your arrival at C227 on September 22, 2024, and show your transfer to Camp W74 on April 11, 2025. If you left Utah in late July of 2024, a two-month transit time from Utah to the Yukon would seem reasonable, but we still haven't accounted for the first seven months of 2024 and a month or more in 2023. I'll ask you again: how do you account for the missing time in 2023?

"I was at Kamas until July of 2024 and have been in custody ever since. What do you think, I took a leave of absence and came back in time to head north for the winter?" Werner asked. "I suggest you go back and recheck your records. Somebody obviously made a mistake."

"Unfortunately, we don't have the time right now to sort this out with the folks at Headquarters," the administrator replied. "Given that your file appears to be incomplete, I am forced to make a decision based on the information in front of me."

Werner felt his blood pressure rising again. He did not like where this was heading and looked closely for cues in the interviewer's eyes, facial expression, and body language. With the CLA, the presumption was always against the prisoner and overcoming it was a steep, uphill battle.

"According to the local file before me, your official release date is April 11, 2027, with no disciplinary actions recorded against you. Therefore you have less than five years remaining on your sentence. You are clearly above sixty years of age and you appear to be fit for travel, pending completion of your medical report. My determination is accordingly that you are eligible for the Congressional amnesty enacted in March of this year. The first transport is scheduled to leave for Ross River after lunch. From there you will be taken to Whitehorse, where you will travel by train to the ferry at Skagway and from there by the fastest available means to Ogden, Utah. You will be released to a halfway house facility upon arrival in Ogden.

"Because you have been convicted of seditious conspiracy, which is a serious felony, your permanent residence will be limited to the Utah Restricted Zone. The exact terms of your amnesty will be given to you upon arrival in Ogden. Go back to your hut, prisoner, gather your personal belongings, and report to the camp security office by one p.m. Am I understood?"

Werner had a dozen questions racing through his head but they were not the kind that the administrator would be able to answer. He took a deep breath, expressed his sincere gratitude to the man behind the desk and rose to leave.

When at last Werner stepped outside the dispensary onto the porch, the men still in the queue noticed the dreamy look in his eyes and pelted him with questions. He stepped off the porch without a word and crossed the yard toward the dining hall, his mind reeling from a hundred repressed thoughts he had not allowed to surface in years. As he approached the dining hall his eye once again caught the list of names on the notice board.

At that moment he realized that he had not even thought to check whether Dave Lewis's name had been on the list. He looked over his shoulder at the line of prisoners outside the dispensary and did not see Dave among them. He approached the list and quickly found the sheet that contained the L's. David Lewis's name was not on the list, either. The man who was responsible for his deliverance would still be deep in the Mactung mine when Werner's transport left that afternoon for Ross River. He owed the man his life and all he could give him in return was a thank-you note and a square of GI chocolate.

CHAPTER 12

Saturday, May 11, 2029,
Boston

A chilly, misty rain enveloped Frank Werner as he left the shelter of South Station and walked toward his destination on South Street in the Leather District. As the commuter rush was already over, the streets were nearly deserted except for a few stragglers, deliverymen, and refugees huddled under doorways and cardboard lean-tos.

The day had not started well for Werner. He was already an hour behind schedule, having overslept after a fitful night's sleep. Carol had likewise tossed and turned most of the night and awoke in a conspicuously foul mood. At breakfast, they barely spoke to each other. Only as Werner rose to leave for work did Carol ask him to do the grocery shopping later in the day because she would be out until late afternoon. When Werner demurred on the grounds that he would also be away until six or seven, she iced up completely. Recent experience told him she was unlikely to thaw by the time of his return.

Werner's own state of mind was not much brighter. For the past several days, he had felt as if he were making no progress at all toward the important goals in his life. Not only was his relationship with Carol deteriorating, but also he fretted that the news about his daughter living in Britain might turn out to be yet another false lead. And most of all, now that he had recruited his team to carry out the Star Committee's sentence against Fred Rocco, he still lacked a plan for getting close enough to Rocco to pull it off.

Meanwhile, the growing demands on his time from his wholesale liquor business and the Somerset Club bar made it increasingly difficult for him to disappear often enough and long enough to carry out his operational work. Much more surveillance was needed of Rocco's daily movements, more background information about him and his close associates, more procurement of weapons and supplies, more motivation and training for the other team members. And every aspect of the operation required his direct participation because, without strict compartmentalization insulating the team members from one another, the loss of any one man could jeopardize the entire team.

Yet, despite his plea for divine assistance earlier in the week, Werner had developed no flashes of insight into how the team could kill Rocco cleanly and reliably yet escape without being identified. If there were ever a time when he needed such an insight, it was now. Without it, or without some kind of lucky break, he worried that discouragement and self-doubt might paralyze him before the operation ever got off the ground.

Werner turned onto South Street and saw the familiar red-brick and cast-iron buildings built to function as leatherworks in the late nineteenth century. The Leather District had enjoyed a rebirth a century later when the elevated highway that separated the neighborhood from Boston's financial center was replaced by a tunnel during Boston's Big Dig. But with the onset of economic collapse in the twenty-first century, the street's genteel, professional offices and trading companies had been replaced by homeless shelters and storefront offices for community organizers.

The building that housed Franz Meier's catering business had fared better than most, with a secure tenant base for the residential lofts on its upper floors as well as a handful of steady commercial tenants like Meier. The building was also home to New England's last surviving realist art atelier, a privately owned institution that trained its students to become professional painters using traditional methods dating back to the Renaissance. Paradoxically, even as the nation's economy fell to pieces, the atelier somehow prospered.

As Werner entered the building, a trio of students resembling 1950's beatniks in skinny black pants, bulky turtleneck sweaters, and long, striped scarves pushed past him to the stairwell. He watched them bound up the stairs. It heartened Werner to think that, after two decades of economic decline, a school that received no subsidies and offered no accredited degree could still find students willing to pay after-tax dollars for four years of exacting instruction simply to render a faithful likeness of whatever in nature they desired to paint.

Werner climbed to the second floor and found Meier's office at the end of the hall. He had visited Meier five or six times over the past year. Each time the office had seemed more crowded with office staff, project managers, cook staff, wait staff, contractors, and suppliers. Today was no different, since it was Saturday and Meier's catering organization was gearing up for a busy schedule of lunches, dinners, receptions, and special events.

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 through 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 anywhere 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."

"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?"

"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 means 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.

Werner checked in with Steve, whom he had assigned to run the bar during his increasingly frequent absences, and asked whether the new crowd appeared to be competent drinkers.

"Not like our regulars," Steve replied after a moment's thought. "But that's not to say they're tight with their money. They're drinking more than their share of white wine, highballs, and rum-and-cokes. They're no teetotalers, that's for sure."

"How about the music? Is it helping us?"

"Hard to say," Steve mused. "The folksinger who just finished didn't amount to much more than background noise. This next group is amplified, so they may be different. You know, I heard they had to leave their last gig because their songs got a bit too political."

"Funny, Jake didn't say anything about that," Werner remarked.

"Oh, yeah, they caused quite a stir. I didn't see anything in the local news, but word has it their fans followed them here tonight in hope of more fireworks."

"Too hot for Cambridge and they've come here?" Werner questioned. "I don't like that at all. Is Jake upstairs?"

"He took off early. Something about his family. He wanted me to tell you he left you in charge."

At that moment Werner saw someone waving at him from a stool at the far end of the bar. It was Harvey Konig. In his brown tweeds, he blended in well with the other academics in attendance. Konig smiled and held up his drink in greeting. Werner could see immediately that Konig was drunk. Then he noticed the two linebacker types in cheap gray suits standing only a meter or two behind Konig. One of them, a stocky bullet of a man with a crew cut and a bulldog face, followed Konig's glance to Werner and caught his eye, as if in warning. Of all nights to have government agents on premises, Werner muttered under his breath, why did it have to be tonight?

Werner went back to fixing drinks while keeping an eye on the low wooden stage across the room where the band was setting up their drums, synthesizer, and electric guitar. The band's two lead singers, who conferred quietly behind the platform, consisted of a spindly youth in his mid-twenties with burning eyes and a three-day growth of beard and a willowy female undergraduate whose wavy reddish brown hair, dreamy eyes, and knowing smile appeared to Werner sufficient to melt a man's heart before she sang a single note. Werner wondered how so young a couple had managed to attract a following so early in their careers.

The first song was a Leonard Cohen ballad sung by the male lead that, though beautifully rendered, made no special impact on Werner. The next number, also by the male lead, was the rollicking Vietnam-era crowd-pleaser from the Woodstock festival, Country Joe's "Feel Like I'm Fixing to Die Rag." That song woke up the audience and had the older members singing along.

Well come on all of you big strong men,

Uncle Sam needs your help again,

He got himself in a terrible jam,

Way down yonder in Vietnam,

Put down your books and pick up a gun,

We're gonna have a whole lot of fun.

And its 1,2,3. What are we fightin' for?

Don't ask me I don't give a damn,

The next stop is Vietnam,

And its 5,6,7. Open up the pearly gates.

Well there ain't no time to wonder why

Whoopee, we're all gonna die.

But the crowd came fully alive when the female lead came on stage and joined her partner in "Back on the Chain Gang," the sentimental 1980s favorite by the Pretenders. Werner watched closely and saw that the crowd's response peaked when the lyrics railed against 'circumstances and powers beyond our control.'

Back on the chain gang

The powers that be

That force us to live like we do

Bring me to my knees

When I see what they've done to you

But I'll die as I stand here today

Knowing that deep in my heart

They'll fall to ruin one day

For making us part.

Werner suppressed a smile. Could this generation be the one that would at last question what had happened to America under the Unionist regime? How ironic for the nomenklatura and the New Class to face the same rhetoric that was directed against Johnson and Nixon during the Vietnam War. But before Werner could take this train of thought any further, the band struck up the next tune. Werner recognized it as Leonard Cohen's "Everybody Knows" and watched the audience howl with delight at its cynicism, delivered in silky tones by the shapely girl with reddish brown hair:

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded

Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed

Everybody knows that the war is over

Everybody knows the good guys lost

Everybody knows the fight was fixed

The poor stay poor, the rich get rich

That's how it goes

Everybody knows

By the end of the song, the reason for the group's popularity was becoming clear. They voiced the distrust and doubt that others dared not express. Their youth, their talent, and their casual sense of knowing, free of bitterness or rancor, did not mark them as rebels or dissidents, but as artists offering up their individual vision of American life. And what they saw did not match the official version from the state-run media.

The two young singers seemed to sense that the audience was in their power. The girl brushed the hair back from her eyes and directed the band with a nod to start the next number, another by Leonard Cohen entitled "The Future." This one was powered by a driving beat and its opening lyrics promised an edgy romp of black humor:

Give me back the Berlin wall

Give me Stalin and St. Paul

I've seen the future, brother,

It is murder.

Destroy another fetus now

We don't like children anyhow

Give me peace

Or give me Hiroshima

Give me crack and anal sex

Take the only tree that's left

And stuff it up the hole

In your culture

But as the verses went on, Werner detected that the lyrics were no longer Cohen's but new ones that the couple had penned to reflect contemporary events. And the new lyrics weren't just edgy; they were raw. As the stanzas grew more stinging, the crowd's response grew more raucous.

Give me back Islamic Law

Beards and burkas for Ma and Pa

And stone me if I don't

Bow down to Allah

Go slit my throat, lop off my head

Just make it quick, so I'll be dead

I'd rather die than face their

Propaganda

Give me back the Russian War

I'll freeze to death in bloody snow

To keep the Yellow Peril

From our borders

I'll fight on those Far Eastern shores

Drink Russian vodka, screw Russian whores

Take on the Chinese Army

For our Leader

Alarm bells clanged in Frank Werner's head so loud that they hurt. This was beyond political. By Unionist standards it was seditious. And it was happening in his club, with DSS agents right in the audience. Werner glanced toward the end of the bar where Harvey Konig guzzled a fresh drink and found the former professor gazing at the singers with mouth agape. Behind him, the government linebackers were bulldozing through the crowd toward the stage. Before the duo could launch their next verse, the DSS men had flashed their badges at the sound engineers and forced them to kill the amplifiers. All at once the music stopped. For a moment the room was silent.

Then the agent with the crew cut and bulldog face mounted the stage and addressed the crowd.

"Okay, folks, listen up. The show is over due to technical difficulties," he announced in a thick South Boston accent. "But stay where you are, the next round of drinks is on the house."

Then, as a ridiculous afterthought, he added, "Now, let's put our hands together for the band!"

The applause was tepid and confused, as if the audience regretted having lost control and revealed too much about themselves. And indeed they had, for the second government agent was already on his two-way radio, doubtless calling in the police or the Unionist militia. Werner had seen this before. The government agents would secure the doors and the police would scan the identification of every person in the club before they could leave. For anyone with a prior record of political dissent, it could be the first step on the road leading to the camps.

"Bulldog" left the stage and headed toward the front door while his partner covered the emergency exit. Werner looked for Harvey Konig, but he had apparently recognized the chance to escape and was gone. Bulldog stopped at the bar on his way toward the door and waved Werner closer.

"Keep pouring, barman," Bulldog ordered. "It may be a while before these folks can leave. But when they do, don't go away. You and I are going to have a little chat."

"Good. I'll have your tab ready," Werner replied with a genial grin. "Because that round of drinks you ordered for everyone is going on the credit card you gave me, Big Shot. You can call it a government stimulus."

"This could get interesting," the agent replied menacingly on his way to the door.

Werner gathered his wits. Showing up on the DSS's radar screen for his acquaintance with Harvey Konig was bad enough. Having hosted an anti-Unionist protest songfest could put him directly under their spotlight. On the other hand, he now possessed an ironclad alibi for the evening. He could count on Bulldog and his partner for that. And by morning he expected to know whether he would need it.

CHAPTER 14

Flashback: Late June, 2024
Kamas, Utah

The midsummer sun was high in the sky and shone hard on the Kamas Valley, driving the temperatures into the mid-nineties. More than five thousand prisoners of the Kamas corrective labor camp, survivors of an armored assault just after dawn, sat Indian-style on the Division Four parade ground waiting to be assigned for transport to other camps throughout the western United States and Canada. Most had not seen food or drink since the night before. Many had kept vigil through the night awaiting the attack and had fought to repel the heavily armed attackers. Though the seriously wounded had already been evacuated to a field hospital outside the camp perimeter, some on the parade ground refused treatment and still bore untreated wounds.

Frank Werner shifted from sitting cross-legged to kneeling to revive the circulation in his legs. His wrists were already raw from the self-locking plastic restraint loop that tied his hands behind his back. But these discomforts were trivial compared with the splitting headache he felt and the pain that radiated from his ribs, back, and shoulders. Though he had not fought the attackers, they had beaten him with clubs and rifle butts when government troops overran his forward observer position atop the inner perimeter wall. Later that morning he had been forced at gunpoint to stand for nearly two hours while the other prisoners were brought to the parade ground from other parts of the camp.

A fine reddish-brown dust stirred up during the tank attack covered Werner from head to toe. With the continuous rumbling of trucks and armored personnel carriers in and out of the camp, the dust continued to blow through the gaps in the perimeter walls and across the camp's open spaces. From time to time he coughed up brown goo from the depths of his lungs but by now he could barely generate enough saliva to spit.

Werner looked from side to side and saw that the other prisoners were arranged in blocks of twenty on a side, each man positioned three paces from those to his front, back and sides. Lanes ten paces wide separated each block from the next. He could see that the entire formation was four blocks wide and guessed that the parade ground held at least a dozen blocks of twenty men, though he could not be certain since he was unable to count the rows behind him. Having been among the first prisoners captured, Werner sat near the middle of the first rank of blocks.

For the most part, the prisoners sat in silence or spoke in low tones to their comrades to either side. From time to time, one or another burst out in anger or despair but their captors generally ignored the cries so long as the prisoners did not stir from their places. Guards patrolled slowly up and down the aisles and rows, descending like furies upon anyone who moved out of formation or rose above a seated position. Prisoners who lost consciousness and could not be revived were dragged by the ankles to a gap in the north wall and loaded into the back of a pickup or onto a flatbed truck for transport under guard to the nearest field hospital.

Every few minutes Werner heard gunfire, usually a single pistol round or a short burst from a submachine gun. He shuddered at the memory of seeing warders stack the dead and seriously wounded on flatbed trucks earlier in the day. To his horror, he had watched the warders finish off surviving rebels with a deft knife slash across the throat. The gunshots, he suspected, were a form of triage. Mutinous prisoners killed while attempting to escape (though many of these were already motionless) did not require treatment or occupy hospital beds.

After two years in captivity as a political prisoner, Werner understood only too well the government's merciless stance toward the Kamas prisoners. The forty-day Kamas revolt had been the first and only such event in the history of the Corrective Labor Administration. The Administration and its overseers in the Department of State Security despised the prisoners for besting them at a game in which the government held all the cards. They also feared that other prisoners might follow Kamas's example and spark strikes and riots throughout the labor camp system. And, most of all, the officers in charge feared being held accountable for their errors and lapses by the Unionist Party leaders who had relied on them to keep the camp system under control and out of sight.

The solution was as obvious to the prisoners as it doubtless was to their captors. After crushing the rebellion with overwhelming force, the camp administration would move to cover up its failure by closing the camp, hiding all evidence of the rebellion and denying that it had ever happened. Essential to the plan would be to identify all prisoners who had led, participated in, or sided with the revolt and to transfer them immediately to remote northern punishment camps where they could be quietly worked to death and never heard from again.

Though not a leader of the revolt or of the strikes that preceded it, Frank Werner had supported these actions from the outset and had been an early volunteer. Most of the rebel leaders were his friends and anyone who knew Werner would have had no doubt as to which side he was on. Accordingly, he fully expected that, when government security teams arrived on the parade ground to sort out the rebel activists from the bystanders, they would finger him immediately.

Werner spotted the first two security teams as they entered the parade ground through the east gate, then noticed a half dozen more emerge from gaps in the north wall. Each team consisted of a prisoner informant, generally a warder or stool pigeon who had sat out the revolt in government custody, a camp security officer, a civilian clerk, and a squad of troops armed with riot batons and pepper spray. The teams fanned out and began their work at the rear rank of each block, then moved among the ranks, deciding the fate of each prisoner as they went. Whenever they found a rebel they recorded his name and serial number and led him out to a waiting transport while leaving the other prisoners in place.

The process, however fateful, did not hold Werner's interest for long. His mind soon drifted back to his injuries, thirst, and the discomfort in his arms and legs until the security team arrived at the end of his row. He cast a look in their direction and was surprised to see two familiar faces among the team.

The first was Uriah Tucker, a former automotive engineer from Flint, Michigan, turned lay preacher who years ago had achieved celebrity for leading a national campaign against the newly imposed federal church tax. A year later, he was arrested for helping political dissidents escape over the Canadian border and promptly disappeared into the camp system. When Werner arrived in Kamas on the eve of the revolt, Tucker was already revered for his humanitarian efforts within the camp and seen as a natural leader for his intelligence, eloquence, and gentle strength of character. Confused murmurs arose among the prisoners as Tucker's giant six-foot, five-inch frame came into view dressed in bright new orange prison overalls. Nearly all remained unaware that Tucker was a traitorous stool pigeon sentenced to death by the Star Committee.

The second familiar face Werner saw was that of the Warden, Fred Rocco, a tall, trim, scholarly-looking man of about fifty-five dressed in desert camouflage fatigues devoid of insignia. Werner recognized him from recent meetings at which Rocco had addressed rebel representatives in the camp dining hall. As on that occasion, Rocco's brilliant blue eyes darted rapidly from side to side like a lizard's.

It seemed quite remarkable to Werner that the Warden would participate in such a hands-on, low-level security activity as identifying rebels on the parade ground. It made sense only if the rumor were true that Major Jack Whiting, the camp's Chief of Security, had died of wounds suffered in the morning attack. For nothing could be more important to Rocco's future and that of his superiors than to round up every last rebel and send them off to oblivion. Rocco stood behind Tucker and the civilian clerk, peering over the clerk's shoulder at the prisoner roster, his hand resting on his holster as if prepared to shoot Tucker should he dare to bolt.

Tucker entered Werner's aisle and peered into the face of each prisoner as the clerk ordered each to shout out his name and serial number. At that moment, Werner heard someone call to him in a loud whisper from the right, the side opposite the security team.

"It's over, Frank," the voice said without emotion. "Let him denounce us. It doesn't matter anymore if it's Uriah or one of the others who does it."

Werner swung around and found the man sitting adjacent to him on the right was none other than Dave Lewis, a close friend who had become a senior rebel leader. Oddly, Werner did not recall Lewis having been next to him when they marched onto the parade ground and could not imagine how Lewis had managed to change places later in full view of the roving guards.

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.

He took off at a leisurely pace down Centre Street, stopping occasionally to look in a display window just to verify that he was not being followed. At Walden Street he turned right and jotted his signal in chalk at waist height on the side of a mailbox. He continued on Walden, turned at the next block and circled back to Centre Street. As he passed Hector Alvarez's townhouse he gazed up at the second-story fire escape and saw an orange hand towel pinned to the railing. Like Greg Doherty's teddy bear, the towel was Hector's signal to call an emergency meeting, something the man had never done before.

Werner found a shabby bodega that was open for business one block to the east on Centre Street and approached the elderly proprietor behind the counter. He laid a five-dollar bill on the counter and asked the man if he could use his phone to make a local call. The old man eyed the money, smiled, and handed Werner a battered telephone attached to a long tangled cord.

"Hello, is this Mr. Ortega?" Werner asked when he heard Hector Alvarez's voice on the other end.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," he continued a moment later. "I must have dialed the wrong number."

Werner thanked the proprietor, who offered him a choice of candy, soda, or a piece of fruit as he handed back the phone. Werner accepted a banana and peeled it as he headed back toward the subway stop. But rather than enter the T station, he continued on, crossing Columbus Avenue, and located Hector Alvarez's silver Toyota parked a block further on Ritchie Street. As he approached, the passenger door opened from within and he accepted the offered seat.

They were halfway around the next block before either man spoke. Alvarez seemed as imperturbable as ever.

"You've heard the news?" the driver began.

"Yeah, we hit the wrong target," Werner replied. "How did it happen?"

"You know the car Rocco always uses? The dark red Galaxy 500?"

"Yes," Werner answered, unsure of where his partner was leading.

"They come from the GSA motor pool, right? Well, there's more than one maroon Galaxy and Devane had one just like Rocco's. The trouble is, Devane drove up first."

"Oh, shit," Werner responded in a low voice. "And the license number?"

Alvarez shook his head.

"I had a good position but it was too dark and the car was going too fast to make out the number. When we practiced, it was daylight."

"I suppose Spotter had the same problem when the car arrived," Werner speculated. "He probably gave the ready signal without seeing the number, either. He may have figured you already had a positive I.D. when you gave him the standby signal. I'll ask Spotter when I see him tonight. Not that it matters at this point."

"Sorry to break the news, boss, but I don't think Spotter is going to show up. You know how we planned for an emergency pickup if Spotter needed help? Well, I read his emergency signal a minute or two after he gave the ready signal. So I picked up Shooter and we drove together to the pickup site. That's when we heard three pistol shots. There wasn't any time to think about it. I decided to abort and get us out of there. Now, I cannot be sure whether Spotter was killed or captured, but either way, we have a problem."

Werner stiffened as if he had received a body blow.

"When you heard the shots, what was the first impression that came into your head: killed, captured, or escaped?"

"If you want the plain truth, I knew straight away he was killed. I don't know how I knew, I just did. I have had the same feeling many times, in Iraq, Afghanistan…even Mexico. I think we have to assume now that Spotter's body is in enemy hands and any evidence he left behind will be thoroughly checked out. The good news is that he isn't alive to talk or identify anyone. Which leaves us open to try again."

Frank Werner's head reeled from the news. The DSS would investigate everything about Hank Oshiro's last months on earth: his contacts, his movements, his income, his payments. It would not take them long at all to link him to Werner and the Somerset Club. And in the wake of last night's musical fiasco, the Bulldog and his partner would doubtless come across Werner's amnesty release and discover that he was a former political prisoner. The likelihood that they could link him and Oshiro to Kamas and Rocco seemed remote but if they did, the result could be fatal. The only positive thought that came to mind was that Oshiro's drug dealings might badly mislead the DSS. While focusing on the drug dealer's criminal record and the money trail leading to his sources and customers, they would likely lull themselves into believing that Oshiro was merely a petty criminal and, if he had been involved in the shooting at all, could only have been active at its periphery.

"If what you're saying is that we have some time before the DSS comes after us, I would agree," Werner affirmed. "The question is, how much time? Assuming, of course, we're careful and lie low for a while."

"And what if we choose not to lie low?"

Werner gave him a questioning look.

"Do our odds get worse if we go forward and finish the job?" Alvarez challenged.

"Listen, Hector, I've already sent Shooter away and you don't have to go on, either, if you don't want to," Werner replied. "You have a family to look out for. As far as I'm concerned, every man did what was asked of him and we still failed. The plan failed. So it's on my shoulders to come up with Plan B, not yours."

"I did not volunteer for this only to go halfway," Alvarez rejoined. "If there is to be a Plan B, I will join it. Three weeks ago we were not so very far from devising such a plan, I think. Let us resume the surveillance and find a new target site as quickly as possible."

"When do you have in mind?"

"Inside three days."

Werner whistled.

"Our original plan was to hit Rocco when he was alone, out of his car, and away from his home and office," Werner pointed out. "How do we do that now without a rifle and without a shooter? By the way, you did dispose of the rifle, right?"

"Cut into tiny pieces in our machine shop and scattered onto our scrap heap," Alvarez confirmed.

"Good," Werner replied. "That leaves us with one Colt Model 1911 autoloader between the two of us."

"One shot at close range is all we need," Alvarez suggested.

"Except that three weeks ago you told me that Rocco didn't leave home except to go to work. Has anything changed since then, Hector? Can you think of any place at all where we could hit him and still get away clean?"

"Perhaps I can," Alvarez offered. "You see, I have continued to watch Rocco on occasion. On three of the past four Tuesdays, he did not drive directly home from his office. The last time, I was able to follow him to an apartment block not far from his flat in Back Bay and saw his elevator stop at the fourth floor."

"Do you know who he went to see?"

Alvarez frowned. "Not yet," he replied. "I suppose it could be a doctor. Or possibly a friend or a mistress, or even a Tuesday poker game. Each time, he was inside for three to four hours. He left his office at five o'clock and came home between eight and nine."

"What's the address?" Werner asked excitedly.

"Exeter and Beacon. I don't recall the exact number, but it's a six- or seven-storey building on the northwest corner."

"Terrific!" Werner praised him. "On Tuesday, let's get together and follow him. Meanwhile, I'll do some research and see if we can match the building to any of his known contacts. If he goes again, we'll nail him."

"Who will do the shooting?" Alvarez asked somberly.

"I don't care," Werner answered impatiently. "Shall we flip a coin?"

"Have you ever killed a man at close quarters, Frank?"

"No," Werner replied.

"I have. Let me do it," Alvarez proposed. "One more will not likely change my life, but it might change yours."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm quite certain," Alvarez answered with finality. "Experience in such things is important. And, if the target resists, I am younger, faster, and stronger than either of you. I will not fail."

****

It was five minutes past noon when Werner bought his ticket to the Museum of Science and made his way to the Blue Wing on the main floor. The show had just begun in the Theater of Electricity and a crowd of fifty or sixty were gathered at the gallery rail. All eyes were on the staff member explaining the two million volt Van de Graaff electrostatic generator, built in the 1930s by Dr. Van de Graaff himself, the largest such generator in the world.

As the generator whirred into action and sent giant blue and white sparks flying from the giant twin domes to a pair of smaller domes mounted on poles, the audience gasped. In the eerie flickering light of the lightning-like sparks, Werner searched the room for Sam Tucker's outsized figure and found him standing at the rear of the crowd. Werner stepped up and took a place beside him.

"I assume you read the morning papers?" Werner asked.

"Yup," Tucker replied casually. "I've been tracking the fallout all morning. The government is following all sorts of clues in all the wrong directions. Whatever happened over there, your choice of a secondary target was inspired."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Werner responded irritably. "But what about our main man? Are you picking up any reaction?"

"None at all. When the operation went down, the DSS blocked access to the grounds and turned everyone away so our man never even got to the party. Since then, he's received a couple calls from investigators but doesn't seem to believe that what happened to the other guy has anything at all to do with him."

"That's excellent," Werner replied with enthusiasm. "That means we may be able to launch a Plan B without him being too security-conscious. But for that, we're going to need a lot more info on our man's movements, contacts, and habits. I'll want to know where he goes, when he goes, and how he gets there. Have you been able to find any recurring events in his schedule? Anything like medical treatments, exercise sessions, a weekly card game or maybe a club membership?"

"None of those, but it does look like our man may have scored himself a girlfriend," Tucker answered with a sly grin. "I'm seeing flowers, phone calls, perfumes, a prescription for E.D. meds, and a couple of parking tickets near her apartment. I've placed her address near–"

Suddenly a loud crackling sound from one of the big Tesla coils interrupted Tucker and drew everyone's attention to a spark that stretched from the coil to a grounded pillar a few meters away. The demonstrator brought two primary-school children forward and handed each of them a three-foot fluorescent light bulb. At the flip of a switch, the bulbs began to glow.

"Fantastic," Werner continued. "Where is she?"

"Exeter and Beacon. Here, I'll write it down for you," Tucker volunteered. He pulled out a pocket notebook and held it up to the blue light as he wrote. "I suggest you watch for Rocco going there on Tuesdays and Sundays, either late afternoon or early evening."

"Great work, Sam," Werner said as he tucked the note into his shirt pocket. "Now, keep after him. And be sure to signal me again if you turn up anything new, okay?"

"Will do."

Werner turned to leave.

"Oh, one more thing," Tucker answered with a meaningful look. "There's something else I picked up that I think you'll want to know."

"Is it about our man?" Werner asked abruptly.

"Not exactly. Do you have another minute or two?"

"Can it wait?"

"Maybe, but I think you'll want to hear this," Tucker suggested. "It’s about your daughter."

Werner froze.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I think I've found her," Tucker replied with a cautious smile. "She's in school in the U.K. I've got her address and everything. Would you like to hear more?"

CHAPTER 16

Tuesday, May 14, 2029
Back Bay, Boston

Weeks had passed since Frank Werner had last bought iced tea at the coffee shop opposite the rear of the FEMA Building and sat by the window looking across Purchase Street at the garage exit. As before, he pretended to read a paperback novel while watching vehicles leave the underground parking garage. Traffic had been light when he arrived at a quarter before five but picked up steadily as the top of the hour approached.

It was just after five when Werner saw the polished maroon Galaxy 500 sedan leave the garage and turn onto Purchase Street. He was close enough to recognize the GSA license plate number as Rocco's and reached into his pocket to send a short pattern of clicks to Hector Alvarez via two–way radio. A moment later Alvarez pulled up outside the coffee shop in a white Nissan pickup and Werner jumped in beside him.

Alvarez took off quickly in pursuit of the Ford and caught up with it just before the turn onto Kneeland Street.

"Want to bet where he's going?" Werner asked to break the nervous silence.

"Sure," Alvarez replied. "What side of the bet do you want?"

"Ten bucks says he stops at his girlfriend's place," Werner replied.

"That's what I think, too," Alvarez agreed. "What odds will you give me to take the other side?"

"How about five–to–one? My fifty against your ten."

"You're on," Alvarez answered with a cheerful smile.

He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and tossed a ten–dollar bill onto the dashboard.

"Take it. This is a bet I am happy to lose."

"We'll find out soon enough who's right," Werner answered, leaving the money where it lay. "Do you see Rocco's Ford moving into the right lane to turn onto Charles? If he stays on Beacon at the end of the Commons instead of turning left to go home, it means we're on."

"You're certain that the flat on Beacon belongs to his girlfriend and not his dentist or his psychiatrist?" Alvarez pressed.

"Positive," Werner insisted. "What's more, Rocco bought an expensive woman's watch over the weekend, so my guess is he's going in there with a particular thing in mind."

"Okay, then, let's switch places," Alvarez directed, pulling the car to the curb. "You drive."

As soon as the car stopped, Werner ran around the back of the Toyota to take the driver's seat while Alvarez climbed into the passenger's spot. The moment the car swung back into traffic, Alvarez reached under the passenger seat for a canvas tote bag. Inside the bag was a Model 1911 Colt pistol, a spare magazine loaded with .45 caliber rounds, a thin nylon windbreaker, a baseball cap, and a pair of unlined, calfskin gloves. He pulled out the pistol, ejected the magazine, inspected it, and reinserted it into the grip.

Werner turned right onto Charles Street and after a block they entered the corridor bisecting Boston Common, where refugees had re–established a tent city on both sides of the road after police ejected them the previous autumn. Entire families sat outside their tents and shanties eyeing the passing cars with a mixture of envy and hostility. Werner recalled years ago having looked out from prison transports at passing cars and feeling similar emotions. Seeing the refugees' misery and humiliation, he felt a twinge of guilt for resisting the Housing Authority's efforts to make room for them in a publicly owned building like Carol's.

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 in the back with the car. But if for any reason I'm not there, use the bike and 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's left turn signal that 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."

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

"Don't forget to unlock the bike on the way in," he said just before Alvarez opened the door. "I'll be waiting for you when you're done. 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 eight 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, half of whose fluorescent bulbs appeared to be missing or dead. He was pleased because 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 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."

"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."

Konig held out a thin letter written on hotel stationery.

Werner took the sealed envelope and examined it.

"Is this your home address?" he inquired.

"Yes," Konig replied.

"Not a good idea," Werner answered. "They'll already have the address on a watch list at the post office. Could you address it to a friend the government doesn't know about and ask the friend to deliver it to your wife?"

"Certainly. I don't know why I didn't think of that from the start. Lately my mind has not been functioning as well as it should…" He let the sentence trail off.

"Here, write the friend's address on the back of the envelope," Werner suggested. "I'll put it in a fresh envelope and send it out when I finish tonight."

"That would mean a great deal to me. My wife…" Konig began before swallowing hard and lowering his gaze to jot a name and address on the envelope. He handed it back to Werner, who slipped it into his shirt pocket.

"I saw those security goons following you last time you were here. What happened? Was there trouble with that government financing you were after?"

"I was an arrant fool to come back," Konig confessed with a faraway look. "The Party lured me with the promise of great wealth and I took the bait. For them, it was never about the money. They wanted me back so they could erase all trace of me from history. It won't be long now before they bring me in and close the chapter. Except that I intend to deny them that pleasure."

"Don't make it easy for them to beat you, Harvey," Werner replied. "If you do away with yourself, they get to write the story. Besides, maybe you've got it all wrong. Maybe things will work out in a way you never imagined. You owe it to yourself and to your family to play out the hand you were dealt."

"No, you don't understand," Konig retorted irritably. "It's over. I know what they're planning to do and I refuse to participate. I resign the match."

"So you think you're better off killing yourself? What if you wake up on the other side, still as miserable as ever but unable to do anything about it? Wouldn't you wish then you'd given it your best shot?"

Werner felt an odd sense of déjà vu making this argument to Konig, as the same reasoning had been given to him years earlier when he had nearly taken his own life during a bout with severe depression at Kamas. Fortunately for him, the matter had been settled by a direct experience of the beyond that no amount of rationalization could dismiss as mere dreaming. In Konig's case, however, nearly four centuries of rationalist–materialist tradition dating back to the Enlightenment appeared to have closed his mind to a broader sense of life's meaning.

"I'll take the risk," Konig answered soberly. "When I die, I don't expect to experience anything at all. Just nothingness. Darkness. Lights out."

"So we're here and then we're gone? Is that all?" Werner probed. "Our lives are simply random events, without purpose? No meaning to anything you've done? Everything in your entire life completely pointless?"

Konig let out a deep sigh that seemed to drain him of his life force, then looked Werner in the eye and spoke.

"The way my life has turned out, I certainly hope so."

As Werner opened his mouth to reply, the telephone rang. Both men looked at the battered black instrument, then at each other, unsure of what to say. Then Werner rose and crossed the room to take the call.

"Somerset Club. How may I help you?" he answered. A moment later he heard a click and the receiver went dead.

"Wrong number," he announced with a shrug.

At that, Harvey Konig glanced at his watch.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize the time," Konig offered sheepishly. Do you mind if I freshen up? As you can surmise, I can't go back to my hotel…"

"Of course," Werner replied. "It's in the hall, to the right."

Konig removed his blazer. His striped shirt was badly wrinkled and stained by sweat. Werner felt sorry for him, recalling how Konig had always taken such pains with his appearance.

"Looks like you could use a fresh shirt," Werner suggested. "Take one of mine. It may be a tad big on you but at least you'll be presentable." He reached under the bar and brought out a white shirt, commercially folded and bagged.

Konig laid his blazer across a bar stool, accepted the shirt and started toward the door.

"And while we're at it, how about a fresh jacket?" Werner added. "We always have a few in the coatroom that customers have left behind. What's your size?"

Konig's eyes lit up.

"Thirty–eight regular, but thirty–eight long will do. Or a forty, if that's all you have."

Werner laughed.

"I'll see what we have in your size."

While Konig headed for the men's bathroom, Werner went to the cloakroom, found a brown herringbone tweed in a thirty–eight long and a blue blazer in a forty regular and brought them back to the bar.

No sooner had he laid them out than the telephone rang again.

"Somerset Club," Werner answered.

A young man's voice came on the line.

"Isn't this Beacon Cleaners?" the man asked. Werner recognized the voice as Sam Tucker's.

"No, it's the Somerset Club," Werner answered politely. "Please check the number and dial again."

But as soon as he laid the receiver in its cradle, Werner cast a glance at the clock, retrieved his windbreaker from its hook, and crossed the hall to the men's room. His face took on a solemn expression as he knocked on the polished hardwood door.

"Say, Harvey, can you hear me?" he called through the door.

"Yes?" came the reply.

"Sorry, my friend, but I didn't notice the time. I've got to go out. I left a couple of jackets for you on the bar. Take the one you like and leave the other. No charge. And, one more thing, Harvey: don't give up."

Hearing no reply, Werner turned and left the building.

****

Aware that Harvey Konig may have been followed to the Somerset Club, Werner peered out the window and scanned the street for surveillants before opening the door. Seeing no sign of Bulldog or his linebacker partner or anyone else who looked like they might work for the Department of State Security, he hurried down the stairs and turned east on Beacon Street along the north edge of Boston Common.

He had traveled half a block up the hill before he noticed the first surveillant, a women in her mid–twenties wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt who seemed somehow out of place. He turned to cross the street and saw another tail, an athletic–looking man of about the same age in khakis and a denim shirt. Werner guessed that they might have been members of a surveillance team following Konig who split off now that Konig had led them to Werner.

Until now, no connection of the sort the government suspected had existed between the two men. But now Werner carried Konig's letter. If the government caught him with the letter or discovered him attempting to ditch it, they would investigate him to within an inch of his life. And when they found that he was a former prisoner at a corrective labor camp in the Yukon and lacked a residence permit for Boston, they wouldn't need to discover the plot against Fred Rocco to arrest him. The DSS had the power to charge him with any real or imagined crime they wanted.

No matter how he looked at it, he saw no other choice. He had to lose the surveillants. But he needed to do it in a way that would not arouse undue suspicion. More than that, he needed to do it soon if he were to meet Sam Tucker at the coffee shop on the other side of the Commons in response to Tucker's emergency signal.

Werner considered his options. Normally he would turn south at Park Street, avoiding the park because of its depressing squalor and the danger of being mugged. But today, he decided to risk it. The surveillants would not be hard to spot among the refugees and the latter's hostility to police or security types might distract the surveillants long enough to give him the lead he needed.

At the corner of Beacon and Park he turned onto a footpath heading due south toward Brewer Fountain and took a direct line through the eastern side of the tent city. About fifty meters in, he stepped aside to make way for an elderly couple and looked behind him. The youth in khakis and denim shirt had followed him into the park but the female surveillant in the hooded sweatshirt was nowhere to be seen. In her place Werner spotted a fortyish bullet of a man wearing a dark blue suit.

At the next intersection of footpaths Werner turned right toward the Frog Pond and the center of the Commons. Now the tent city encroached more closely onto the footpaths and he could sense the hostility of the idle youths loitering on the few remaining park benches. One of them called out as he passed but Werner could not make out what he said.

At the next bench a pair of hard–bitten youths with mullet hairdos stepped into his path.

"No narcs allowed," one of them spat as he approached.

Werner smiled kindly at them and inclined his head to point out the men following him.

"If you want narcs, watch the pair following me."

When the two mullet–heads turned to look, Werner slipped past them.

Ten meters further on, Werner turned south again and used the opportunity to glance behind him. To his delight, he saw a hostile crowd gathering where the Bullet and Khaki Boy would have encountered the two mullet–heads. Werner quickened his pace and turned again, now heading southeast toward the corner of Tremont and Park Streets, where the makeshift shacks of street vendors encroached upon the footpath and blocked any view of him from the north.

As soon as he reached the south edge of the Common Werner removed his windbreaker, folded it tightly, and tucked it into his waistband so that, at a distance, a surveillant would see the back of his white shirt rather than a dark windbreaker. Then he merged with the stream of foot traffic heading northeast on Tremont and kept pace with the crowd, resisting the urge from the adrenalin coursing through his veins to bolt across the street and disappear into the nearest alley.

At last Werner left the Common behind him and entered the dark canyon of Tremont Street, where the shadows comforted him and the buildings sheltered him from searching eyes. With his last reserve of self–mastery, he waited for the traffic signal before crossing Tremont Street and cast a sidelong glance in the direction from which he had come. Seeing none of the surveillants who had followed him to the Common, he crossed quickly and slipped into the narrow slot of Winter Street.

****

Ten minutes later, a refreshed and smiling Frank Werner arrived at the Café Normandie, a block south of the Orpheum Theater, where actors and stagehands mingled with professors and law students from the nearby Suffolk State Law School. Despite its proximity to Boston's former financial district, no Moneymen could be seen.

Werner found Sam Tucker huddled over an empty cappuccino mug in a booth at the rear of the cafe.

"Another ten minutes and I might have begun to worry," he greeted Werner with obvious relief.

"If you had seen me ten minutes ago, you might have been more worried," Werner replied. "I had to shake surveillance to get here. I don't think they're connected, but it's not something either of us can take lightly."

"Meaning?"

"No more face–to–face meetings for a while."

"How long is a while?"

"A few weeks. Maybe longer," Werner answered.

"That kind of puts a crimp in our mission, doesn't it?"

"I'm not sure I follow you, Sam. Our mission is accomplished. Unless you know something I don't know."

"Didn't you find it strange that, unlike Plan A, there was absolutely no mention in the media of Plan B?" Tucker pointed out.

"Not really. The government doesn't usually call attention to this sort of thing. If they announced anything, it might look as if they were losing control, especially coming so soon after the first event."

"Except that yesterday, two days later, they did announce something. An obscure little blurb saying that our man is recovering from medical treatment and that his deputy will be taking his place for a while," Tucker said in a low voice, leaning across the table for emphasis. "I don't think they'd be saying that if our guy was dead, do you?"

"Where did you find that?" Werner snapped.

"On the FEMA Web site."

"Oh, shit," Werner responded.

"My reaction, too," Tucker agreed.

"It's always possible that they could be playing games with us, but I think we'd better take this at face value. Maybe he was wearing a bulletproof vest."

"Wait, there's more," Tucker added. "This morning I found our man's name on a hospital admissions roster. Condition stable and expected to recover. Now how's that for dumb luck?"

"I don't know whether to laugh or cry," Werner replied with a look of discouragement. "Honestly, Sam, in a world that made sense, why would a guy like that have any luck at all?"

Before Tucker could speak, the waitress arrived with another cappuccino and took Werner's order for a double espresso.

"So where is he now?" Werner continued when the woman was gone. "And what else do we know about his condition?"

"They released him yesterday," Tucker answered. "He's at home with his wife, a nurse and a pair of bodyguards. From what I can make out, the government seems to think our man was simply a target of opportunity, somebody the opposition chose because he was a high–ranking security official and relatively vulnerable. If they thought someone was targeting him personally, I don't think they would have sent him back to his apartment."

"You may be right," Werner agreed. "How about the security situation in general? Have they raised the alert level for other senior federal officials or for high–profile locations like the Courthouse or the Federal Building?"

"All of the above. Just what you'd expect if they thought this was a run–of–the–mill terrorist attack."

"And what about his diagnosis?" Werner pressed.

"Skull fracture, concussion, spinal injury with partial paralysis," Tucker continued. "And a massive amount of pain. From what I'm picking up over the phones, it seems the nurse has had trouble getting enough painkillers for him. The wife has been calling everywhere, pulling every string she can to find a pain specialist who'll issue the narcotics he needs."

"Interesting," Werner picked up. "What do we know about the schedule for his nurses and security guards? Anything there we can use?"

"I've got a good idea of their schedules. He's got around–the–clock coverage with three shifts of nurses and bodyguards. Our best opening would appear to be at the afternoon shift change, between four and five. But you'll need tight planning and heavy firepower to carry off any sort of Plan C because they've got police backup on call within three to five minutes."

"Yeah, you've got a point there, Sam. It's going to take time to figure this one out," Werner admitted. "But, as I said, we'll have to lie low for a while, anyway. So we might as well start thinking about it."

Sam Tucker began to speak but held back when he saw the waitress arrive with their coffee. As soon as she laid them on the table, Werner grabbed the check and paid it in cash. Tucker looked uncomfortable waiting for her to leave and Werner sensed it had nothing to do with the money.

"I wish I could be with you for Plan C, Frank, but I've run into some problems of my own," Tucker declared. "And in this case I don't think lying low will be enough to solve them. Remember our talk at the museum a month ago, when I told you how I learned to hack the Institute's computer system?"

"Of course," Werner replied sympathetically. "And I appreciate all the things you've done with it since then."

"Well, I have to stop. Like, right now," Tucker announced in a near whisper. "It seems that MIT has finally discovered all the hacking going on and hired some computer security consultants. They've already suspended a couple of my undergrads for unauthorized Internet use and I expect they'll investigate the entire department before long. I've done what I can to cover my tracks, but if they look hard enough, I'm sure they'll see what I've been doing. Obviously, we wouldn't want them to do that."

"Can you stop them?"

"I'm not sure, but I think there may be a way to get them off my trail," Tucker offered. "You see, right now the Institute is very keen on reducing the head count among faculty and research fellows. Tightening up computer security gives them a chance to fire some people, shut the barn door afterward, and move on without further ado. So, if I announce that I'm leaving next week to take the plasma physics job in West Virginia, I think they'll be so relieved that they won't bother to spend more time and money to learn what I've been up to."

"Wow. Next week," Werner said, startled by the news. "I'm sure you know what's best, Sam. It's just that…"

"Yeah, it's a bitch to withdraw when you've got the enemy on the run," Tucker replied. "But I'm not giving up the fight, just stepping off to the sidelines to fight another day."

"Then do it today, Sam. Getting burned won't do either of us any good. And whether our man lives or dies, his deeds have finally caught up with him. The rest is in God's hands."

Sam Tucker lowered his head and nodded. He pushed back his chair and for a moment Werner expected him to stand up and leave. Instead, he leaned forward and spoke to Werner with heartfelt emotion.

"I'm sorry, Frank, but I can't leave without asking you one last question that's eaten away at me for a long time. It's about how my father died. I don't think Uncle Jonah has told me the whole story. You were there. I want you to tell me the truth about his last days."

Frank Werner met Sam Tucker's gaze and decided that he could not refuse the request.

"Sam, your father was a fine man," Werner began. "And he lived a life that would make anyone proud. He should not be judged by the decisions he made in the last months of his life. Uriah Tucker was one of the best men I knew at Kamas. And the best men were precisely the ones that Rocco and his goons most wanted to break. To break a man like Uriah, to compromise him in the eyes of the other prisoners, to reduce him to a stoolie and force him to betray his principles and his fellow prisoners: that is the ultimate expression of power that the Unionist system sought to have over us.

"Uriah was under enormous pressure during the Kamas revolt. Rocco's security man, Whiting, tried every trick in his filthy book, including threats to have Uriah's family killed if he didn't turn informant. In the end, that's what broke him. He did inform to Whiting and the Star Committee discovered it. Starcom sentenced him to death and formed a team that was unable to carry out the sentence. I know because I was on the team. But even then, I knew that nobody could have withstood the pressure Uriah was under.

"Later on, during the final weeks of the revolt, Uriah was in protective custody with the camp authorities and survived the siege. But by the time Rocco brought him back in to identify rebel leaders, I think he was already dead inside. Rocco and Whiting had made him betray everything he stood for. To me, it was the same as murder. And then, in front of all the surviving rebels on the parade ground, Rocco ordered Uriah shot in cold blood when he tried to redeem himself with a final act of resistance. I know this because I was there. Now, take my advice, Sam, and forget everything I've just told you. Go on remembering your father the way he lived, not how he died."

Sam Tucker listened to the entire story without any change in expression. Now he stood on unsteady legs, as if in a fog. Werner wished he could have rewound the tape and taken back his words but it was too late. Tucker's idol was shattered.

****

Werner waited five minutes after Tucker's departure before he left the coffee shop and returned to the Somerset Club by a circuitous route that avoided Boston Common.

For the first time since Dave Lewis's visit to the Club nearly forty days prior, he felt completely alone. Hank Oshiro was dead. Greg Doherty had moved to Georgia. Hector Alvarez was somewhere in the Caribbean. Sam Tucker would leave soon for West Virginia. The Star Team was down to one man.

Yet Rocco lived.

The decision to complete the mission or abandon it lay in Werner's hands. But if he were to fulfill his original commitment, he would have to do it alone.

But how, he asked himself?

And even if he could finish the job, was it worth the effort and the risk and the likely collateral damage?

Is this really what life and fate expected from him after trying twice and failing?

More than that, he asked himself, why had the team failed? If it was because what they did was wrong, why hadn't they been prevented from carrying out Plan A or Plan B?

All these questions and more raced through Frank Werner's head as he made his way back to the Somerset Club, taking care to watch for surveillance coverage but finding none.

His fondest wish as he reentered the Club by the rear service entrance was to find Dave Lewis waiting for him at the bar so that he could renegotiate their agreement.

But when Werner entered the darkened bar, he found no one waiting for him. Instead he found folded on a table near the door two blue blazers: the one he pulled from the coatroom and the soiled blazer that Harvey Konig had been wearing when he arrived earlier that afternoon.

Werner picked up the soiled blazer and rolled it into a ball to stuff it in the trash. But as he did, he felt something stiff in the breast pocket. It was Konig's leather–bound datebook and his U.S. passport. And in the side pocket he found a vial of sleeping pills.

He stuffed all three into the zippered pocket of his windbreaker on the expectation that Konig would discover them missing and return for them. Most likely, the professor had been too tired and preoccupied to think of emptying the pockets. But then he remembered how the Bullet, Hoodie Girl, and Khaki Boy had intercepted him upon leaving the Club and wondered if government agents might have detained Konig the moment he stepped onto the street. In a panic he recalled Konig's letter, still tucked in his shirt pocket, and raced to the stairway to fetch a fresh envelope from the Club office. Until he got that letter out of his hands and into a mailbox he wouldn't have a moment of peace.

****

The entire evening at the Club went by in a blur for Werner. From time to time his eyes would wander to the door, expecting to see Harvey Konig return to reclaim his passport or, in the final hour, dreading to see Bulldog and Bullet show up to demand Konig's whereabouts.

Werner closed the bar at the stroke of midnight and slipped out the back door heading west to the Arlington T Station rather than the much closer Park Street Station. He arrived at Linda Holt's Brookline apartment shortly before one a.m. and was surprised to find her seated at her antique writing desk.

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise," he greeted her. "I'm happy you've discovered the joys of the bat schedule, Linda. Are you using the extra time to work on your memoirs?"

Linda set down her pen and looked up with a welcoming smile.

"No, just catching up on my correspondence. Once I noticed it was midnight, I decided to wait up for you."

"Wonderful!" he replied. "Will you join me in a nightcap? A hot toddy, perhaps? Or a spot of brandy?"

"Not tonight, I'm afraid. But you go ahead," she said.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course," she answered, turning to face him with a look of concern. "You look like it might do you some good. Actually, I've never seen you so wound up as you've been the past few days, Frank. Has something been bothering you at the office?"

"Not really. If anything, I feel relieved tonight. You see, I've decided to sell my interest in the bar," Werner announced. "Jake made the offer a month ago and I took him up on it this morning. We settle on Monday."

Linda's eyes widened.

"Well, that calls for congratulations," she offered. "It must have been a difficult decision for you. Though I do recall you telling me last month that you were thinking of moving back to Utah. Tell me, does this mean–"

"I don't know yet," he replied abruptly without waiting for her to finish the sentence. "You're right; that was my plan. But now that I've made contact with Marie…"

"Yes, Utah is a very long way from London."

"Wait," he interjected. "How did you know that Marie was in London?"

"I believe you told me a few days after we did your reading. You seemed very happy about it," Linda responded with a reassuring smile.

"At that time it was still only hearsay. And I didn't have specifics. In fact, I didn't get proof until this morning. I have a letter from her and she's…she's fine…"

Werner stopped as his voice broke and his eyes brimmed with tears.

"Listen, Frank. Before you pour that drink, would you like to do another quick reading? I've had the sense lately that things may have resolved a bit since we did the last one for you. Do you think it might help to get some more guidance while you're deciding what to do next?"

Werner hesitated and then let out a resigned sigh.

"Actually, Linda, it might help a lot. Sure, let's do it."

Linda Holt opened a drawer in the antique desk, pulled out her tarot deck and closed her eyes in meditation before setting the deck in front of her.

"Cut the deck, shuffle it, and put it back face down on the desk," she instructed.

He did what was asked. Then Linda dealt the cards rapidly, laying them in rows and pausing only to turn them over or arrange them in groups. When she finished, nearly all were face up but, as before, Werner could discern no patterns and knew next to nothing about what any of the tarot images signified.

"I am receiving impressions," she declared half a minute later, her eyes still closed.

"You have some business here in Boston that you are fated to complete," she continued. "It is already set in motion, and with it comes responsibility for others who have assisted you. You are their leader, the one who has brought them crisis and the opportunity to change their lives, to learn and advance.

"But something fundamental has shifted since I last read your cards. The others who have been close to you in these last weeks have largely completed the work that brought you together. But for you, one more step remains. Until now, your task was bound up with that of your team. Now it all rests on you."

Werner swallowed hard before speaking.

"Do you see success ahead?"

"Yes," Linda replied. "Though it may be dangerous. I sense a necessary violence here, like a bone that must be set before it can grow straight, if that might help to explain it."

"And do you see any key or special knowledge I might need to succeed?"

"No, you must simply go forward and face the danger and you will pass through it safely."

"What about my daughter?" Werner asked next. "Will I live to see her again?"

"Here something has changed. Whatever separated you from her appears to have been dispelled. I believe you will be brought back together. But perhaps not for long. I see your paths diverging again. I see your daughter in a major city with a cold climate and overcast skies. She will thrive there and lead a happy and successful life. But I see you somewhere else, in the village or town, under a warm sun, where you will live content in your final years."

"And the spirits of my wife and older daughter? Are they coming through or are they still blocked?"

"I see them close by. They aren't being allowed to speak yet, but I sense that they will come to you in your dreams as soon as you have completed the step that you are about to take. They are staying close by to protect you."

Werner felt tears welling in his eyes and tried not to blink for fear of having them spill down his cheek.

"Thank you, Linda," he said in a choked voice.

"I see them fading now," she replied. "And now they are gone. I'm sorry, but that's all I have for you."

Werner put an arm around Linda's shoulders and held her hand in his.

"You are a very fortunate man, Frank Werner," she told him after a moment of silence. "Not everyone is given the chance to change his fate as you are doing. You have much to be thankful for and much still to look forward to in your life. I can appreciate that because mine is largely over."

Werner drew back and gave her an alarmed look.

"But you're in terrific shape, Linda. You've got plenty of miles left on you, for heaven's sake."

"No, Frank," she replied, "It appears that I don't. Which is why I stayed up tonight writing letters. I had some tests done this week and I received the results today. The diagnosis is pancreatic cancer and my oncologist says it has reached an advanced stage. And judging by my symptoms these past few days, I probably don't have long to live. Though I still intend to go on working as long as I'm able."

"Oh, my God, Linda. I had no idea. All this time I've been in a funk with my own issues and I didn't notice a thing. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," she answered. "I've lived a long life and I'm reasonably satisfied with it, though I have my regrets, like anyone.

"What regrets could you possibly have after a life of service like yours? If there were a Catholic church around here, I'd nominate you for sainthood."

"No, we all make mistakes and have our regrets," Linda reflected. "My greatest regret is not having seen sooner when the rationing of medical care for the elderly and impaired edged into euthanasia. I still recall vividly the day I was asked to accelerate the termination of an otherwise healthy Alzheimer's patient and I refused. That's when I started spending more of my time at the hospice and less at the Medical Center.

"Oh, I'm still on staff there and I still dispense medications to keep up my licenses but I don't feel very good about it. To me, it's like handing out guns to murderers. I may not be the one pulling the trigger, but I'm still responsible if the ones who do the killing got their guns from me.

"It makes me furious sometimes to be so weak that, in order to do good, the people in authority can require me to do evil. Of course, evil has always been with us, but it wasn't nearly so common before Unionism. Now, who can resist? Who can stand up to these people?"

Werner held Linda's shoulders and felt her frailty and disillusionment.

After a long moment she seemed to relax. And then she turned around with a bright smile and spoke again.

"You know, Frank, I think I've changed my mind."

"About what?" he asked.

"I think I'm ready for that drink now. The medications don't start until tomorrow."

They both laughed while Werner rose to fetch brandy from the sideboard. He returned a few moments later with a pair of crystal snifters filled with two ounces of Spanish brandy.

They toasted to each other's health, drank, and settled back onto the sofa.

"May I ask your advice on something confidential?" Werner asked uneasily after setting down his glass. "If you are uncomfortable with it, I promise to back off. Perhaps if I pose it as a hypothetical…"

"Don't be silly. We're not strangers, Frank. You're quite free to ask me anything you like. If I can't answer, or if I don't care to, I won't."

"Very good, then," Werner began. "Say there was a patient getting care at Boston Medical Center."

"You do know that's where I practice, don't you?"

"Yes, actually, I do," he acknowledged. "Now, let's say that this patient was recovering from serious injuries, say in a car accident, and was in severe pain and needed medication for it. Who would decide which medication to give him and who would administer it? And how would they determine the proper dosage?"

"As a matter of fact, that's the sort of situation that we face every day in my department. There's nothing unusual about it."

"And what department would that be?" Werner broke in.

"I'm in the Pain Management Group. But, then, you knew that, too," she observed.

"Yes, actually, I did."

"And this patient of yours, he wouldn't be a victim of a recent attack, would he?"

"To tell the truth, he was," Werner continued. "And now that we've crossed that bridge, please allow me to explain."

CHAPTER 18

Flashback: Early May, 2024
Kamas, Utah

April of 2024 was a deceptively peaceful month at the Corrective Labor Camp in Kamas, Utah. Unlike March, the guards shot no prisoners and the camp administration transferred no prisoners north to camps in the Yukon. The guards and warders even used their nightsticks sparingly. In return, the prisoners mounted no strikes. But those who had participated in the strikes during March still lived under the cloud of further punishment. Meanwhile, Frank Werner's fifty-third birthday came and went without notice.

As Werner had expected, promises that the camp administration had made the month before went largely unfulfilled. There was no joint investigating commission, no suspension of trigger-happy guards, no compensation for the victims or their families. Labor quotas remained the same despite fewer men on each work team. And food rations remained as before. The only promises that Warden Rocco kept were to show movies in the yards on Sunday evenings and to permit prisoners to petition for a case review by a special hearing panel.

Meanwhile, spring arrived late to the Kamas Valley, as had been its pattern for the past dozen years. Snow and freezing rain continued almost daily for most of the month, with the last big snowstorm taking everyone by surprise on April 24. Gradually temperatures rose, the snows thawed and the mud deepened. After the storm, Werner exchanged his heavy winter coveralls and insulated winter boots for thinner summer coveralls and standard-issue army boots. For the first week after the switch, the frosty mountain nights made it more disagreeable than ever to crawl out of bed in the morning. But as always, Werner adjusted.

Although food rations had not changed, the milder temperatures meant that the prisoners needed less energy to stay warm. Yet no one gained weight because the reduced numbers of men on each work team after the March transfers meant that each man had to work harder to meet his team's weekly quotas. The failure to improve living conditions, the fear of reprisals and the lack of hope led to another outbreak of suicides during the last week in April.

It was a time of intense vigilance among both the government's stool pigeons and the Star Committee's stoolie hunters. Every day the camp's security director and his staff summoned selected prisoners from the barracks, from the dispensary, from worksites, mess halls, and bathhouses for discreet meetings. There they offered the prisoners cash, food, tobacco, and easier work assignments to entice new informants to report on their fellows. Those who refused were threatened with solitary confinement, beatings, transfers to the Yukon, and even reprisals against family members outside the camps.

At the same time, the Star Committee counter-intelligence squads followed these same prisoners wherever they went, interrogated them after each suspicious contact, and warned them of dire consequences if they informed on their neighbors to camp security. Every week brought rumors of another informer whom the vigilantes had stabbed, smothered, or garroted.

As Werner had feared, the strikes and the Administration's reaction to them left the camp population more divided than ever. Those who continued to pledge loyalty to the Unionist Party went out of their way to distance themselves from the rebels and to curry favor with the camp authorities. Those who opposed the Party lost no opportunity to remind fence sitters of its illegitimacy and of their collective suffering under Unionist rule.

Many rookie prisoners became hard-line anti-Unionists during April, having shed in March any remaining illusions about the nature of the corrective labor camp system. Even moderates tended to harden their stance after the second strike was crushed. Only devoutly religious prisoners from persecuted sects like the Amish, Mennonites, Hutterites, Jehovah's Witnesses, Orthodox Jews, and Seventh Day Adventists, together with a few pious New Agers, managed to steer a middle course between the opposing political factions, with both sides reluctantly tolerating their neutrality.

As for prisoners like Werner, who had been arrested on political or security grounds and who claimed no strong religious affiliation or belief, it had become increasingly difficult to avoid taking sides with one faction without being victimized by the other. Though Werner had opposed the President-for-Life from the start, he had never taken up arms against the Unionist government and had a visceral aversion to violence.

In fact, the week before, he had volunteered to give up a relatively easy work assignment in the camp distribution center for the very reason that political divisions had led to fighting among the work teams and reprisals by the pro-Unionist warders and guards. Rather than be caught in the middle, he volunteered for more demanding work at a remote worksite in the Deer Valley ski resort among more highly skilled prisoners, nearly all of them anti-Unionist, who worked well together as a team.

The site was a massive chain-link-fenced enclosure surrounding the Chateaux condominium complex along Royal Street in the Silver Lake Village area of Deer Valley. The entire Silver Lake Village had been covered by glaciation for nearly a decade but was now clear of ice at the lower elevations. Those housing units that had not been destroyed by avalanches or the megaton weight of snow and ice were now being dismantled room by room by prisoners from the Kamas camp.

Every appliance, furnishing, plumbing fixture, or length of pipe or wire that was reusable or recyclable was stripped from the condos and sent on to Kamas for sorting, processing, and onward shipment to state-run construction sites. The private owners of the condos had lost all ownership rights years ago when FEMA condemned Park City and Deer Valley as unsafe and declared them Restricted Zones accessible only to authorized government personnel.

The summer salvage season had begun on April 1 and Werner's work team had been assigned to remove all salvageable plumbing and HVAC components from the Chateaux worksite. It was already past five o'clock and the mobile sodium vapor lamps had been switched on for the last hours of the workday when the surrounding mountains cast their long shadows over the compound.

In a vacant lot that bulldozers had cleared for them, Werner's team had laid out their sinks, toilets, and polished marble tiles on wooden pallets, to be lifted by forklifts onto flatbed trucks and trucked down the hill to the highway leading east toward Kamas. Today's results were a good haul. Even without counting, Werner could see that the team would easily surpass their daily work quota. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, laid another empty pallet on the muddy ground and killed an extra minute or two setting it up before returning to the condo where he had been working all afternoon.

As he turned to leave, Werner saw a member of a rival team sneak up to one of his team's pallets, remove a sink and transfer to one of the rival team's pallets.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Werner shouted at the man, a dark-skinned Hispanic youth in his early twenties who Werner guessed was an inch or two shorter than he and perhaps twenty pounds lighter.

Rather than retreat, the man looked back at him provocatively and transferred another sink to his team's pallet as if daring him to intervene. When Werner advanced to challenge him, he could see empty positions on three or four other pallets where someone had removed materials salvaged by Werner's team.

"Drop it, hombre!" Werner shouted angrily as he looked around for another team member to help him, or better yet, a foreman or the worksite boss. But the only other men on the lot were on their way back into the condos.

The man who took the sink cast a quick glance back at Werner and retreated toward the condos. The moment he did, Werner retrieved the pilfered sink and carried it over to his own team's pallet. No longer able to see the man who had pilfered it, and assuming that he had reentered the condos, Werner identified another sink that appeared to belong to his team and bent over to pick it up.

When he lifted his head, he felt a stunning blow to the back of his head and dropped his load. Before he knew what was happening, he was shoved sideways and fell heavily onto the muddy ground. In an instant, someone in an orange prison jumpsuit was on top of him with a length of pipe in his hand raining blows onto his head and shoulders from behind. Werner curled into a fetal position and did his best to protect the back of his neck with his hands. But now his wrists and knuckles exploded with pain and angry curses in Spanish filled his ears.

Werner didn't remember how long the attack lasted. At one point he wondered why he hadn't lost consciousness yet and, no longer feeling the pain of the blows, imagined that perhaps he was already dead. Then, at last, someone pulled the attacker off his back and the blows stopped, though the crazed cursing continued.

When at last fellow team members lifted him to his feet, Werner found himself face to face with the worksite supervisor and his own Work Team Captain, Dave Lewis. Lewis was bleeding from both nostrils and from a cut above one eye. That's when Werner noticed the wetness in his own scalp and the trickle of warm liquid down the back of his neck.

"I don't know what this is all about, Dave," the worksite supervisor commented to Lewis. "But I don't want to see any more of it. Get your man to the dispensary and go there with him to get your face patched up.

"And as for you, Ramon, you're off the team. I'm writing you up for a month in the Punishment Detail and then it's back to the general labor pool. When the goons are done with you, I'll guarantee you'll think twice about picking any more fights in this camp, Macho Man.

"Hurst, pull up a van and drive these two to the dispensary. Release them to their barracks when they're done. No point in bringing them back here tonight."

"Got it," replied Hurst, one of the Kamas guards who supervised the warders and foremen at the Chateaux worksite. "What about Ramon?"

"Give him to the warders."

****

Hurst locked the two men in the back of a rattletrap delivery van that doubled as a troop transport and ambulance. The van negotiated the steep descent to the valley floor and had nearly reached Park City before either man spoke.

Werner noticed that Lewis was watching him closely, as if impatient to strike up a conversation. This seemed odd, as Lewis had not spoken to him before despite being on the same team for a week.

"Thanks for pulling him off me," Werner said to break the silence. "I might not have lasted much longer if you hadn't."

"You're welcome," Lewis replied. "And I apologize for not reaching you sooner. Of course, if Ramon had attacked you for real, he'd probably have killed you in the first ten seconds."

"You mean that Ramon…" Werner hesitated, his mouth agape, "that the whole scene was rigged?"

"I needed a way to talk to you. Alone."

Lewis handed Werner a circular piece of paper about the size of a half dollar. It was inscribed with a five-pointed star inside a circle. The interior of the star was filled with black ink.

"Do you know what this is?" Lewis asked.

"I think so. It's what the Star Committee gives someone before they kill him," Werner answered warily. "Is that what this is all about? Did you bring me all the way down here just to kill me?"

Lewis smiled weakly and shook his head.

"Not at all," he replied. "We also give the Star as a sign of the Star Committee's authority. Yes, it's given before an execution but it's also given to officers assigned to covert missions. Which brings us to why we're here."

"But I have no connection with the Star Committee," Werner protested. "Nor have I ever been in the military. So, if I'm not a target and I'm not in your chain of command, what other interest could the Committee have in me?"

"Your State Security file shows that you were once a civilian officer in the Operations Directorate of the Central Intelligence Agency," Lewis answered. "No, yours wasn't a military commission, but as a former intelligence officer, you swore an oath to uphold the Constitution. You're still bound to that oath. Which is why the Star Committee is drafting you into service, effective immediately."

"Drafting me into service?" Werner objected. "No, I don't think so. By what authority?"

"By the authority of the only legitimate government in this camp," Lewis responded, "which is the Prisoners Council. Since the President-for-Life suspended the Constitution back in '17, all current and former Federal officers who have ever sworn to uphold the Constitution have been legally obligated to transfer that allegiance to the legitimate successor government operating in their area. And the Star Committee is the judicial branch of the successor government operating here in Kamas."

"I'm sorry, Dave," Werner interrupted, "but to me your whole Star Chamber thing is nothing more than a glorified lynch mob. If that's what you want me to support, count me out."

"Not so fast, Frank. Since you seem to have confused the Committee with the old Star Chamber, do you happen to know why the first Star Chamber was created back in fifteenth-century England?"

Lewis paused for effect but Werner did not oblige him with an answer.

"Well, I'll tell you," Lewis resumed. "The English Crown established it to bring powerful nobles and gentlemen to justice at a time when no ordinary court could be relied upon to convict them. The model wasn't bad, though it was abused over time. Fast-forward to today and the Star Committees operate in a similar way to bring out-of-control tyrants to justice. Including places like Kamas."

"You make it sound perfectly wonderful, Dave," Werner objected. "But if what you say is true, then why hasn't your Star Committee gone after the Warden or the Deputy Warden or the Chief of Security? The only people who seem to get whacked around here are the poor slobs Jack Whiting and his people trick or coerce into becoming stool pigeons. Sure, they're traitors, but why go after just the little guys? I thought you said the original Star Chamber was formed to take down the rich and powerful?"

"It's a fair question," Lewis replied. "And the answer is that we haven't figured out yet how to hit Rocco or Chambers. At the moment, our biggest challenge has been to keep our own leaders from being fingered by Whiting's stoolies and transferred to the Yukon. Without leadership and organization, none of us stands a chance. But if you think we ought to be going after bigger fish, then you ought to hear me out. Because now we've got a big fish on the line. And that's exactly why we're calling on you."

"To fry him, I suppose," Werner joked uneasily.

Lewis remained silent.

"All right, I'm listening. Who is he?" Werner asked.

"He's one of our own," Lewis confided. "Somebody on the Prisoners Council itself. None of us would have suspected him. But we have undeniable proof that he was reporting directly to Whiting even before the strikes broke out. And he's fingered dozens, if not hundreds, of strike activists for transfer to punishment camps. The Committee has weighed the evidence against him, convicted him, and sentenced him to death, to be carried out in secret. Immediately."

"Wait a minute," Werner balked. "If your man's a traitor and you have the evidence, why not accuse him publicly in an open trial? Wouldn't that be better for everyone?"

"First of all, the Administration would never allow a trial," Lewis pointed out. "They'd pull their man into protective custody the moment we accused him. And a trial would expose our intelligence sources and methods, blinding us to the next traitor. On top of that, this man is very popular; his supporters might not believe the evidence, no matter how good it was. And finally, what does it say about fairness if the small-time traitors get their throats slit by night and the big-time traitors get a show trial?"

"Okay, I follow you," Werner acknowledged. "But even if you're right, a secret trial without the right to confront one's accusers can't possibly be fair. You must know that."

"Look, Frank, we're in a corrective labor camp here. The insane are running the asylum. It's as fair as we know how to get," Lewis conceded.

"Which means you're okay with it. It doesn't mean I'm okay with it," Werner asserted.

"And I'm saying it doesn't matter if you're okay with it, Werner. You're an officer, damn it, and the star I gave you represents an official order through the only chain of command we have," Lewis cautioned. "If you don't cooperate, you will be tried for dereliction of duty by the Star Committee operating as a general court-martial. Now, then, are you in or out?"

"Ah, now I get it," Werner replied, shaken by the ultimatum. "And if I agree, what is it you want me to do?

"We want you to get the traitor alone so that you and I can kill him."

"Sorry. No way," Werner protested. "I'm prepared to die for my country but I'm not willing to kill for it."

"Oh, so you refuse to get your hands dirty defending the rest of us, but you don't mind if others defend you," Lewis challenged. "You certainly didn't wave me off when I pulled Ramon off your sorry ass. So tell me: would you send the police home if some gang-bangers broke into your house and attacked your family? Would you tell the Army to lay off if the Chinese invaded Alaska? You know, that non-violence stuff only works when your enemies are civilized. Look around. After all this, do you really believe that Rocco and his crew are civilized? Or are you so caught up in your moralistic mumbo jumbo that you've lost your God-given instinct to survive?"

"Okay, I see your point," Werner allowed. "I never intended to minimize the sacrifices of people in the police or the military–and even the Star Committee, to an extent. But killing is wrong, damn it! I don't care who your traitor is. I won't do it. You'll have to get someone else."

Dave Lewis listened intently and paused for a moment before speaking in a subdued voice and with evident empathy.

"Believe me, Frank, none of us would have placed this burden on your shoulders if there were any other way. You're the only person we can turn to for this. In normal times, we'd all agree with your insistence on following conventional ethical rules. But during times of necessity, a responsible person has to consider the circumstances and apply his reason. And sometimes his responsibility can require a deviation from traditional ethics, sometimes even an attack on the very laws he's trying to preserve. In times like these, Frank, responsible people sometimes have to take action that is exceptional and morally unacceptable and do it without the easy assurance of making the correct choice. It's in the very nature of leadership: by their actions, leaders create the choices from which others must choose. Whether you like it or not, Frank, you are one of those leaders. And that's why we need your help."

Frank Werner frowned and looked away.

"Who's the target," he asked at last.

"Your best friend. I never said this was going to be easy," Lewis replied.

Werner laughed uneasily.

"Surely, you're joking. You can't mean…"

"Yes, the traitor is Uriah Tucker. And in five minutes, God willing, the two of us are going to find him and kill him."

****

The delivery van arrived at the camp perimeter and passed through the series of gates that led into the Service Yard, where the dispensary was located. Hurst led the two prisoners in through the emergency room dock at the rear of the building, where a clerk logged them in and an orderly removed the disposable restraint loops that bound their hands and feet. Except for the guards and a few of the physicians, everyone who worked in the dispensary was a prisoner.

A physician's assistant called next for a nurse to lead them to the examining area. When the nurse arrived, Werner took her aside. She was a dour woman, apparently in her early fifties, who moved briskly and appeared to brook no nonsense.

"Is Uriah on duty tonight?" he asked her in a deferential tone. Werner recognized the woman from a previous visit as one of the first prisoners to occupy the camp's women's division years before.

"Yes, he's doing workups in Radiology," she replied. Why do you want to know?"

"Any chance you could get him here to examine me?" he asked with an ingratiating smile.

"Does Uriah know you?"

Werner nodded confidently.

"If you tell him I'm here, he'll want to come."

"Your name?"

"Frank Werner, from Barracks C-10."

"I'll send someone to talk to him," the nurse responded coolly. "If he's free to come–it might take a few minutes."

Ten minutes later the nurse returned and led Werner without further comment to a room with multiple examining tables.

"Strip to your shorts and sit on the table," she ordered while assembling bandages, disinfectant, and other supplies from a nearby cabinet.

As soon as Werner was seated, she examined each cut and bruise, starting from the crown of his head, cleaning and dressing each with such speed that Werner worried that she would be finished before Uriah arrived. She was already dressing the cuts on Werner's hands when a black man the size of an NFL lineman entered quietly dressed in pale blue hospital scrubs. His head was shaved and he wore a close-cropped beard and wire-rimmed glasses, giving him a distinctly professional look for a prisoner.

The visitor's face lit up momentarily on seeing Werner's face before momentarily going slack, leading Werner to question whether Uriah was distressed to see his friend's injuries or was concerned over something else.

"Frank!" Uriah exclaimed with a jovial grin. "What the devil brings you here? Don't tell me you've been fighting those young bloods again?"

"Word travels fast, doesn't it?" Werner answered genially. Then, when Tucker had come closer, he added in a low voice, "Say, Uriah, is there a private room or someplace where we can have a quick word? I've got some information for you."

"For you, Frank, anything is possible. Come, follow me," he replied and led Werner to a small private examining room. He pointed to the stainless steel examination table inside and waited for Werner to be seated, leaving the door open behind him.

"I'm sorry, but I don’t have much time, Frank. Radiology is swamped today. What do you have for me?"

While Tucker spoke, Dave Lewis slipped into the room behind him and quietly closed the door. As Tucker noticed the movement behind him, Lewis slipped an improvised garrote made of telephone line around his neck and pulled Tucker backward off his feet. In an instant Werner leapt on top of the victim and grabbed him around the knees to prevent him from rising or wrenching free of Lewis's grip.

Looking up, Werner could see astonishment and desperation in Tucker's eyes that was mingled, he supposed, with fury at being betrayed. He felt a convulsive heave of the man's chest and a final squeeze of his hands before Tucker's body finally went limp.

The two men had barely relaxed their grip when a pair of warders opened the door and descended upon them with wooden batons, forcing them within seconds to release their prey. Werner felt stabs of pain where Ramon's pipe had left cuts and bruises little more than an hour before. And then he felt nothing.

CHAPTER 19

Sunday, May 19, 2029
Back Bay, Boston

Sam Tucker pulled the stolen Honda sedan slowly to the curb on the westbound side of Commonwealth Avenue, half a block from Fred Rocco's apartment building. Across from him in the passenger seat sat a newly disguised Frank Werner, his gray hair trimmed back to a crew cut and dyed dark, horn–rimmed eyeglasses on his head, and dressed in gray flannel trousers, an olive herringbone sport coat, and a whale–motif bow tie over a blue pinstriped shirt. Between his feet sat an antique leather doctor's bag.

"This is it," Tucker offered as the car came to a stop. He glanced across at Werner, who was eyeing himself in the rearview mirror.

"I really appreciate your delaying the move to West Virginia on my account, Sam. I don't know what I would have done without you," Werner admitted. "And coming up with a getaway car on such short notice, that really goes above and beyond."

"Don't mention it," Tucker answered. "Now that I know what Rocco and the DSS did to my father, I couldn't have left you alone to finish the job. Besides, we both have a strong interest in your safe exit. If the DSS caught either of us, we'd both be burned sooner or later."

"Not an encouraging thought," Werner replied. "If you don't mind changing the subject, how do I look?"

Tucker gave Werner a quick once–over and suppressed a laugh.

"Very medical and very Boston," he pronounced. "I just love the whales. And where did you score that fantastic doctor's bag?"

"A friend of mine. It was her father's," Werner answered.

"Anything else you might need before you go?"

"Yeah," Werner replied distractedly. "Tell me one more time about Rocco's apartment."

"Sure. It's on the third floor," Tucker obliged. "Rocco's bed is in the guest bedroom, straight back at the end of the corridor when you enter from the elevator side. The TV in his room is on all day. Good background noise. Since the patient spends most of his time under sedation, the nurse spends a lot of her time in the kitchen or on the phone in the living room. The bodyguard has a chair by the front door. What else do you want to know?"

"Anything new on his condition?" Werner probed.

"Rocco's been pretty stable since the hospital released him on Wednesday. He gets morphine every four hours around the clock through his IV drip. Otherwise he'd be in massive pain from a couple of fractured thoracic vertebrae, a bad concussion and dozens of sutures in his scalp. Ouch. The problem is that he keeps waking up with terrible nightmares. Rocco's wife has been on the phone nonstop searching for an anesthesiologist who's willing to jack up her husband's prescription but so far without success."

"Maybe the current doc is afraid of what might happen if he accidentally overdosed a high–ranking DSS officer," Werner speculated.

"Or maybe he's just tired of being harassed by Rocco's wife," Tucker replied. "She is a real piece of work."

"And this afternoon she's out playing bridge, correct?"

"Until dinner," Tucker confirmed. "So you should be okay for another hour. And the day shift for the nurse and bodyguard ends in about a half hour. Since the evening nurse doesn't usually arrive till a quarter to five, you've got about fifteen minutes to get in, distract the nurse and the bodyguard, do your thing, and get out. If I'm right, they'll be quite content to let you handle the change in Rocco's sedation so they can get out the door.

"Now, Sam, this is important: are you absolutely sure they're expecting me?" Werner demanded.

"One hundred percent," Tucker affirmed. "I monitored the call from the Medical Center this morning. They told the nurse you'd be arriving around four. It was a nifty bit of work–I didn't know we had a woman on the team."

"We don't. That call was the real thing. Don't ask."

Without waiting for a response, Werner examined himself one more time in the rearview mirror and seized the door handle.

"Okay, Sam, wait for me where I showed you and pull up fast when you see me coming out."

Then Werner opened the door and was gone.

****

Werner scanned both sides of the street for surveillance as he neared the corner, crossed the Commonwealth Avenue median strip, and approached Fred Rocco's apartment building at a leisurely stroll.

He entered the lobby and found the uniformed doorman behind his antique desk as Alvarez had described.

"Hello," Werner greeted him with a professional smile. "I'm Doctor Avery, here to see Mr. Rocco."

"Oh, yes, the Roccos are on the third floor. The nurse said to send you right up."

Werner continued to the rear of the lobby and entered the walnut–paneled elevator cabin. Unlike the elevator in Carol's building, this one was newly waxed and polished and untainted by the stench of urine. And it ran.

At the third floor the doors opened smoothly and silently onto a carpeted hallway with an apartment entrance at either end. The door to the right was already open and just inside it a tall, sturdily built Irish plainclothesman wearing an ill–fitting gray suit inspected Werner through watery blue eyes. The cop's round face and ruddy complexion gave him a youthful look, though Werner guessed him to be in his mid–thirties. Judging by his shabby suit, crew cut, and relative lack of ferocity, Werner took him for a local cop rather than a federal agent.

"Doctor Holt?" the policeman inquired.

"Doctor Holt wasn't available. I'm Doctor Avery."

"Identification, please."

Werner handed him the fake medical license and Boston Medical Center I.D. card that he had purchased the day before at an exorbitant price from a forger specializing in Medicare and Medicaid fraud.

The policeman returned the identification and pulled a handheld radio from his belt.

"A Doctor Avery is here from the Medical Center in place of Doctor Holt. Do you want to come out or should I send him back to you?"

"Send him in, please," came the response. Werner detected a chill in the nurse's voice. Apparently the two did not get along together.

"It's straight back at the end of the corridor, Doctor. You can't miss it," the officer advised, stepping aside to let Werner pass. The relaxed security encouraged Werner. If the DSS had suspected that Rocco's attackers had targeted him personally rather than as a senior member of the Unionist government, he doubted they would have entrusted the Boston police with Rocco's protection.

As he traveled the length of the corridor, Werner lingered to survey the rooms that were open to view. He was at once amazed and appalled to see the measure of wealth on display in the Rocco flat. For someone who had claimed after leaving Kamas that he could not afford to retire on his government pension, Rocco appeared to have amassed sufficient wealth to purchase an impressive collection of oriental rugs, antique furniture, original paintings and sculptures, and a kitchen worthy of a Michelin star.

But then, Werner mused, who needs cash when one can plunder the valuables of Moneymen whom the DSS has cast by the thousands into the labor camp system? Indeed, why retire from State Security at all when, as a senior DSS official, one has access to an inexhaustible supply of loot?

Werner located the guest room at the end of the hall but, to his surprise, the nurse was nowhere in sight. And, even more surprising, he found his patient wide awake and intermittently watching a widescreen television at the foot of his bed. The channel was tuned to a sport fishing contest somewhere in the Caribbean and Werner envied the tanned fishermen reeling in a blue marlin from the pristine blue waters beneath his boat.

Werner took a deep breath, entered the sickroom, and greeted his patient with a supremely confident smile, adopting the persona of a medical authority who bestrides his specialty like a colossus.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Rocco. How are we feeling today?" he began.

Rocco examined the visitor cautiously for a moment, then seemed to relax and surrender himself into the care of the long–awaited pain specialist.

"Frankly, I wasn't feeling much of anything until a day or so ago," Rocco replied. "In the hospital, I slept pretty much around the clock. But not anymore."

His tone seemed petulant and oddly out of character for an official of his rank.

"And the pain?" Werner continued. "Has it been under control since your release?"

"For the most part," Rocco answered. "My head is splitting, but that I can handle. It's the nightmares that are killing me." He looked into Werner's eyes with an expression that was close to pleading. "Look, I haven't had a decent sleep for the past three nights. I wake up in a cold sweat and that's all I get until morning. The meds just aren't working. I think you need to bump them up a notch or two."

"Other than the nightmares, how would you characterize your sleep?" Werner went on, ignoring the patient's suggestion. "Do you have difficulty falling asleep on your first attempt?"

"Falling asleep hasn't been the issue, doctor. The problem is that, as soon as I get into a deep sleep, I land in a nightmare that seems as real as life. When I fight to wake up, my pulse is racing, my pajamas are soaked with sweat, and I'm as wired as if I had three cups of coffee."

"Would you mind describing the nightmare to me?" Werner interrupted. "Is it always the same?"

"Each one starts the same way. I find myself in this gray sort of mist, standing on a smooth, cold floor that feels slightly damp. I know I'm conscious even though I can't see or hear a thing. And then I see these figures a short way off. As I try to get closer to them, they withdraw into the fog. So I follow them, walking with my head down to watch my step, and the fog thickens and the light seems to dim. Before long, I get this awful sense of dread and I feel something brush against my legs, like a wild animal running past me. I try to figure out what it was when somebody shoves me from behind and I nearly trip and fall.

"By now I'm getting the sense that these figures are all around me, closing in, and I can feel their foul breath on me as I hear them grunt and snarl. Then I feel hands or claws grabbing my clothes and ripping at them. I swing and kick at them like a wild man. But the more I lash out, the more they bite and tear into me and I realize that they're having great fun at my expense. They don't seem to be in any hurry to kill me. They just play with me like a cat with a mouse.

"In the end, I can feel them tearing off whole chunks of my flesh and eating me alive, only slowly, to prolong their enjoyment. That's when I wake up. It's completely weird, but the nightmares are more real than any dream I've ever had. Doctor, I just don't know how much more of this I can take. I think it has to be a side effect from the medications or something. You've got to adjust them for me. I don't care if the headaches get worse or the pain comes back. Just give me a decent night's sleep without the damned zombies!"

Werner offered a solemn nod and asked Rocco to describe each of the locations where he felt physical pain.

"Rate the level of each on a scale from one to ten," he added.

"The headaches are a six," Rocco noted. "My back is a solid eight. The stitches in my scalp are a six or a seven, but only when the headaches let up. Otherwise they're a five, sort of in the background."

Werner listened patiently, now and then offering a sympathetic nod.

"Okay, I think we have a pattern here. Mr. Rocco, I'm going to add a sedative to your pain medication. This particular combination has been studied extensively and works rather well for disturbed sleep patterns in severely ill or injured patients. I'm confident it will do the job for you. I'm going to inject it into your IV line right now."

Werner opened his doctor's bag, removed a single–dose vial of a clear liquid, loaded a syringe and injected it quickly but carefully into the IV line. As he did so, Werner felt an odd surge of euphoria followed by a sense of inner peace and acute mental clarity, as if he were the one receiving the drug rather than Rocco. Suddenly he realized that, no matter what happened to him from this moment on, his mission was accomplished. Unless Rocco was given a reversing agent immediately, in a matter of minutes he would be dead.

With a start Werner shook himself out of his reverie and continued.

"And if you do happen to wake up with another nightmare, Mr. Rocco, I'll leave a prescription and some additional vials of midazolam behind so your nurse can repeat the procedure," he assured the patient. "Now relax as best you can and get comfortable. Go ahead and close your eyes while I check your monitors."

The moment Werner saw Rocco's eyelids flutter and close, Werner stepped over to the door and quietly turned the deadbolt. Then he unwrapped an adhesive plaster, set it aside on the bedside table and pulled a double restraint loop out of his jacket pocket. He slipped the plastic loops deftly over Rocco's wrists and pulled them closed, then just as quickly slapped the adhesive plaster over Rocco's mouth.

He held his quarry by the wrists and pressed him down against the bed. Though Rocco's eyes were now wide with terror, the midazolam was already working and his muscles were too weak to resist Werner's weight.

"Oh, yes, about the restraints," Werner continued in a soothing voice that even he found chillingly clinical. "Because I have something to give you…Warden.

Frank Werner removed a paper disc from his shirt pocket, held it in the air for Rocco to see and placed it in the center of his chest.

"Sorry, Warden, but I must be brief."

And in a flat judicial tone, Werner pronounced the Star Committee's sentence while holding his face close to Rocco's to ensure eye contact. A look of panic now distorted Rocco's face and his body was rigid with fear.

"Frederick Rocco, you have been tried by a duly constituted jury of your peers and found guilty of crimes against humanity as warden of the Kamas labor camp. You have been sentenced to death. Prepare to meet your Maker. May he have mercy on your soul."

Slowly, Rocco's eyelids fluttered and closed and the muscles in his face went slack. Werner released his grip, reloaded the syringe from a new vial, injected the contents into the IV line and repeated with a third vial.

"Sweet dreams, Warden. I hope you have fun with your new friends on the other side," he added maliciously, glancing at his watch.

Werner rose to inspect the vital signs monitor on the other side of the bed just as the monitor suddenly let out a series of piercing electronic beeps and strobe–like flashes. He crossed the room quickly and pressed the flashing red light to turn it off, then reset the monitor to a higher sensitivity threshold before turning the light back on. The beeps and flashes ceased but in the hallway he could hear footsteps approaching rapidly.

Seconds later someone tried to open the door.

"Doctor! It's Nurse Mallory! Open the door!" she commanded, pounding hard on the heavy door.

"One moment," Werner answered in a measured voice. "I seem to have locked it by mistake."

Werner quickly inspected Rocco's closed eyelids, pulled the plaster away from his mouth, cut the restraint loops, and slipped their remains into his jacket pocket. Without undue haste he unlocked the door.

A short redheaded woman of about fifty in a traditional white nurse's uniform glared at him across the threshold while the moon–faced policeman peered over her shoulder. Her reddened face radiated anger and suspicion.

She demanded to see his identification.

"Certainly," Werner answered with a respectful smile, producing the two cards he had shown the policeman upon entering.

The nurse examined them briefly and returned them. Werner remained calm. From experience, he knew that the IDs would withstand all but the most professional visual inspection, though they lacked the electronic features of genuine documents.

"I'm here in place of Doctor Holt, who wasn't available," Werner explained with a tolerant smile. "The monitor went off as I was adjusting it. A few moments ago I gave Mr. Rocco an injection of midazolam to help him sleep. If you like, I can leave you a journal article about combining morphine with midazolam to relieve dyspnea in severely injured patients. And I'm also going to leave you with five single–dose vials of low–strength midazolam to tide you over until you can pick up more from the pharmacy tomorrow. Use one vial each time the patient wakes up prematurely, not to exceed one injection every four hours. Do you have any questions?"

Werner held out a small plastic sack containing the vials and the article. The nurse accepted them but her eyes still exuded mistrust. Her eyes wandered to the bed, where something appeared to catch her attention.

She stepped closer to Rocco and found the disc with the black star.

"What's this?" she demanded as she picked it up to examine it.

"Oh, it must have dropped out of my pocket. Here, I'll take it," Werner replied with indifference.

"Yes, but what is it, Doctor?"

"Something my granddaughter gave me," he responded without flinching. "It's not important. Keep it if you like."

She hesitated but relented and gave it back.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Avery, but Mr. Rocco has been the victim of a criminal attack. Sergeant Shea and I have instructions to take every precaution to guarantee the patient's safety. I'm sure you won't mind if I call the Medical Center to verify your credentials."

She reached for the telephone on the bedside table.

"Suit yourself," Werner replied. "I can give you the Pain Management Department's direct number to save time."

"Thanks, I already have it," she countered with a challenging look.

Nurse Mallory dialed a preset number and waited for an answer. When it came, Werner stepped closer but she backed away as if to prevent him from hearing the voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, this is Meaghan Mallory, the visiting nurse for one of your pain patients, Frederick Rocco," she said upon getting through. "That's right, we're on Commonwealth and I'm dialing from the apartment. We were expecting a visit from Dr. Linda Holt of your department but instead we have a Dr. Kevin Avery here. He said that Dr. Holt was unavailable."

There was a half minute's pause while the nurse listened attentively to the person she had reached in the Pain Management Department.

"Doctor Avery's description? Well, yes, he's a large man, over six feet, on the trim side, looks to be in his mid–fifties, with sort of a weathered complexion, horn–rimmed glasses…"

For what seemed to Werner like an eternity, Nurse Mallory pursed her lips, nodded, and glanced back at him with a concerned look. Then she drew a deep breath before responding to the voice on the other end.

"I'm terribly sorry, Dr. Holt, I didn't mean to interrupt your meeting. No, really, that won't be necessary. Dr. Avery is already with the patient and everything seems to be under control. Yes, he should be on his way very shortly. I do so appreciate your help, Dr. Holt."

With a sheepish expression the redheaded fury replaced the phone in its cradle.

"I believe I owe you an apology, Doctor Avery," she offered. "I hope you won't take offense. You see, we have strict instructions not to let any strangers into the apartment."

"Not at all," Werner answered with a magnanimous smile. "In your place I would have done the same. Now, if you don't mind, I must get back to the Medical Center. House calls are not something I have the luxury of performing very often. I expect the patient will rest easily now. He should not be disturbed."

"But don't you want me to monitor the effects of the new medication, Doctor?" she persisted.

"Only if you consider it necessary. Now, unfortunately, I'm running late for a meeting. If you require anything else from me, please have me paged."

The nurse's face still bore a troubled expression as Werner turned to leave but, as she had done so many times over the years, she let go and deferred to authority.

Werner retraced his steps along the corridor past the treasures in Fred Rocco's living room and thanked Sergeant Shea for opening the door to the landing. At last when the door closed door behind him he felt as if his entire body had gone limp. His hand trembled as he pressed the elevator call button and the electric motor began to whir. And while the indicator light above the door advanced from one to two to three, he felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip and dripping down the back of his neck.

The moment the doors slid open Werner stepped in. But in that eternal interval before the sliding doors closed again, Werner watched the apartment door reopen and the burly policeman rush into the hall.

"Doctor, come quick!" he cried. "Something's wrong with Mr. Rocco!"

By supreme force of will, Werner mustered the will to conceal the fear and dread that radiated in waves from the pit of his stomach. He had no choice but to follow Sergeant Mallory back to the bedroom, where the vital signs monitoring alarm beeped and flashed at full volume. He found Nurse Mallory astride Rocco on the bed trying to resuscitate him.

"What the hell did you do to him?" she confronted Werner, her green eyes blazing with anger. "He's nearly stopped breathing and his pulse is failing. And why did you tamper with the vital signs monitor?"

"Never mind the monitor," Werner answered decisively. "Get off the bed and keep up the CPR as best you can until I tell you to stop."

He turned now to the policeman.

"Sergeant, we've got to get the patient to the hospital. Call an ambulance and then help me wheel him out to the elevator."

Werner disconnected the IV drip from Rocco's wrist before removing the blood pressure cuff and the leads to the heart rate and respiration monitors. Placing his doctor's bag on the bed, he and Sergeant Shea unlocked the bed's wheels and guided it out of the guest room and along the corridor to the elevator with Nurse Mallory following close behind.

When they arrived, Werner and the nurse maneuvered the bed into the waiting cabin while the plainclothesman took to the stairway.

The moment the doors closed and the cabin began its descent, the nurse challenged Werner more heatedly than ever.

"What in God's name is going on here?" she demanded. "Who the devil are you, anyway, and why haven't you even attempted to administer a reversing agent? Nobody gives midazolam without having flumazenil on hand. You should know that. By God, when we get to the emergency room I'm going to get to the bottom of this!"

Werner gave her a knowing look but he sensed that his confidence tricks might have lost their effectiveness with her.

"There will be time enough for questions when we get to the hospital, Nurse Mallory," he remarked coldly. "I suggest we focus on getting the patient there alive."

Before she could reply, the elevator reached the ground floor with a bump and the doors opened onto the lobby. Sergeant Shea stood a few meters away speaking to someone on his two–way radio.

"The dispatcher says it'll be another five to ten minutes before the next ambulance can reach us," he announced with a worried look.

"We don't have that long," the nurse protested.

"Okay, then let's flag down a car," Shea responded, pointing to Sam Tucker's Honda idling outside the front door. Werner and the nurse guided the mobile bed out of the elevator and onto the sidewalk while the plainclothesman ran around to Sam's window and motioned for him to lower it.

"We have a very sick man here, Sir," the Sergeant told Tucker. "He needs to go to the hospital immediately. Will you take us?"

Sam Tucker cast a questioning look at Werner, who nodded quickly and looked away.

"Sure, if you say so," Tucker replied in confusion.

"Put him in the front seat," Werner directed.

Werner and Shea each took one of Rocco's arms and lifted him gently off the bed.

"Careful with his spine," Werner directed. "No sudden movements. Just follow my lead. Now, driver, I want you to lay the seat as flat as you can. And nurse, sit wherever you have the best angle to continue CPR. While you're getting settled, I'll go fetch my bag."

The moment the nurse's back was turned, Werner stepped back from the Honda and took off at a run. Shea heard rapid footfalls and raised his head in time to see Werner approaching the corner. He stepped free of the car, raised his service pistol, and called for Werner to freeze.

In another second Werner would be around the corner and out of sight. The policeman considered the risk of hitting an innocent bystander and lowered his pistol.

But at the very moment when Shea's finger left the trigger, the driver of the parked car nearest the corner Werner was approaching stepped out onto the pavement and leveled a pistol at Werner from less than three meters away. Werner stopped and raised his hands over his head, his chest heaving, mouth agape, and eyes wide with shock.

The gunman, a tall, lean man in his mid–forties with military–length, salt–and–pepper hair and a darkly handsome face, stepped onto the sidewalk and ordered Werner to turn around. Werner did so without objection.

The man holding the pistol was Hector Alvarez.

Sergeant Shea saw the action and came quickly but Alvarez waved him off.

"I read your radio message, Sergeant. You stay with the principal and get him to the hospital fast. I'll call for backup here and bring the suspect in. Now, go!"

"Hurry, Sergeant!" the nurse called from the Honda. "He's slipping away! We've got to go!"

Werner watched Sergeant Shea race back to the Honda and heard the doors slam shut. He caught his breath while Tucker's Honda took off with screeching tires.

Alvarez confronted Werner with a grim expression. Bystanders up and down Commonwealth Avenue had stopped to watch and some were approaching to offer their help.

"Keep your hands up and get in the car, fast," Alvarez ordered quietly. "We can talk after we get out of here."

Hector Alvarez pushed Werner into the car at gunpoint and drove off before the neighbors could figure out what was happening.

The Toyota had traveled a block before either man spoke.

"My God, Hector, you nearly gave me a heart attack," Werner began with a nervous laugh. "How on earth did you get here?"

"You really didn't think I would leave you alone to finish Rocco off after all we've been through together?" Alvarez began.

"But you were in Cuba! How could you have known?"

"I found a Boston paper and saw that Rocco still wasn't dead. So I came back as soon as I could and parked outside his place to find out who came and went while I listened to the police radio. Didn't you see the signal I left you yesterday?"

Werner cast a nervous glance out the window through the rearview mirror but saw no flashing blue lights.

"Sorry, Hector," he confessed. "I didn't even think to look."

Werner heaved an enormous sigh of relief and slowly removed his glasses, bow tie, and jacket, tucking the glasses into his breast pocket and laying the tie and jacket across the back seat.

"Too bad about the doctor's bag," he commented with sincere regret. "I borrowed it from a friend. There's nothing traceable in it, but I promised her I'd bring it back in one piece. I know it's just a loose end, but…"

Werner froze mid–sentence.

"Wait, talk about loose ends!" he exclaimed. "I forgot about Sam! We have to find him at the hospital and get him out of there!"

"Who's Sam?" Alvarez asked with a vacant look.

"He's the last man left on our team. He was going to be my getaway driver. And now he's the guy driving Rocco to the emergency room, for God's sake!"

"Okay, let's turn around," Alvarez agreed. "The Medical Center is only five minutes away. I'll hop out a block from the emergency entrance and look for him. I got a good look at him when he drove up. When I get out, you take the wheel and meet me on the corner of Mass. Ave. and Harrison in half an hour."

Alvarez turned right at the next intersection and right again onto Newbury Street, heading west. But as they approached Massachusetts Avenue, traffic slowed and it took them ten minutes to negotiate the left turn. As they inched their way north toward the I–90 overpass and Boylston Street they spotted the flashing lights of a police cruiser in the distance.

A quarter of an hour passed while they crawled toward their destination. They soon despaired of reaching the hospital in time to find Tucker. At last they drew abreast of the flashing lights and saw the wreck that had stalled traffic. It was a gray Honda, the front end crushed like an accordion where it has crashed head–on into a concrete bridge support. An ambulance had pulled up alongside. Three bodies lay on the ground draped in sheets and a fourth was being strapped into a stretcher. It was a nurse in a white uniform.

"Oh, no, no, no," Werner burst out. "Not this. Not Sam. It can't be…"

"Three plus one makes four," Alvarez observed, counting the bodies. "The only one left is a woman. Sorry about that, boss. They had to be going at least sixty when they hit that concrete. Your man Sam must have wanted to kill Rocco awfully bad to do something like that."

CHAPTER 20

Monday, May 20, 2029
Brookline, Massachusetts

The sun shone brightly and fleets of cumulus clouds sailed across the afternoon sky as Frank Werner exited the subway at Coolidge Corner Station. While he strolled down Harvard Street toward Carol's apartment with the final record of his spirits inventory folded in his breast pocket, he heard the Red Sox double–header blaring from a radio atop a street vendor's folding table. Spring had arrived late again in Boston but despite the afternoon chill one could no longer doubt that summer was coming soon.

Werner stepped lightly across Beacon Street and gazed into the distance. He was three blocks away from the apartment when he noticed smoke rising from the vacant lot next door. Once again, a diminutive tent city had been erected on the lot and a few dozen homeless squatters now gathered around trash fires blazing from fifty–five–gallon drums. As Werner approached, he steeled himself to withstand the baleful stares, jeers, and insults directed at the building's rightful occupants and their visitors.

Unlike the wretched crowd of flood refugees who had huddled around the trash fires over the winter, this crew looked well fed, cocky, and organized. Nearly all were males in their twenties and thirties and some of them held cans of beer. At the rear of the lot, a late–model Chevy pickup truck dropped off multiple cases of soda, beer, and sandwiches. If these were indeed the homeless refugees who had camped out over the winter, they had picked up some deep–pocketed sponsors since then.

As if aware that Werner was a visitor and not a resident, the squatters left him alone until he was within a few meters of the entrance. Then a pair of toughs in faded Red Sox jackets blocked his path.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you," the larger of the two warned. "It's unsafe, you know."

"So what's not safe about it?" Werner inquired mildly.

"Haven't you heard?" the youth replied with a knowing look. "The City's going to have it condemned."

"Is that so? Funny, it doesn't look all that bad." Werner attempted to walk around them but the smaller of the two men stepped into his path.

"You live here?" the squatter challenged.

"No, just visiting. But thanks for the tip, anyway. I'll be real careful."

This time Werner stepped off the curb and made a wide arc around them to the entrance. They let him pass but he could still hear their mocking laughter as the door shut behind him.

Harriet Waterman was waiting for him when Werner entered the lobby. Locks clicked and chains rattled the moment he passed her door. It opened before he could reach the stairwell. Harriet stepped outside wearing a blue housecleaning smock over her customary jeans and oversized white t–shirt. She must have seen him coming through her kitchen window because she still wore the thick yellow rubber gloves he had often seen her use to clean ovens and sinks.

"Oh, Frank, I'm so glad you're here," she exclaimed as she followed him to the stairs. "I'm warning all the tenants about the demonstrators. The Housing Authority thinks they may try to occupy the building tonight. I've called the police three times about it but they keep telling me they can't do anything till someone commits a crime."

"Do you mean you're advising tenants to leave?" Werner asked.

"I honestly don’t know what to tell people anymore," she answered, evidently realizing the risk of providing incorrect advice whether a tenant remained or not. "Some of these tenants are elderly. They could have a heart attack if someone tries to bash in their door. But if they leave, the place may be stripped bare by the time they get back. For someone like Carol with so many beautiful things, it must be a scary choice."

"Thanks for the alert, Harriet. I'll talk to Carol and see what we can come up with," Werner replied, trying not to seem abrupt. "I'm sure she'll let you know whatever she decides."

"She has my number if she wants to talk," Harriet added quickly as Werner started up the stairs.

Though he still kept a key to Carol's apartment, Werner knocked and waited for Carol to come to the door. When she did, she greeted him with a warm hug and a kiss on each cheek.

"It was such a lovely surprise to get your call this morning, Frank. I can't tell you how much I've missed you," she gushed. Indeed, the effusive greeting was so uncharacteristic of Carol that he wondered if she were mocking him. Or, alternatively, if she had been drinking.

Then, to his surprise, Werner spotted Linda Holt seated on the living room sofa. Between their two teacups was a bottle of dark rum. Linda offered him a smile but said nothing until Carol led him into the room and pulled up a chair for him.

"Did Harriet intercept you on the way up?" Linda inquired playfully in lieu of a greeting.

"Would she be Harriet if she hadn't?" he replied.

"You realize, don't you, that she wants to take over Carol's apartment? That awful woman is doing her level best to scare the daylights out of all the exempt tenants with her endless warnings about the squatters. And as soon as she can get them to leave, the Housing Authority will claim abandonment, revoke their exempt status, and reallocate the apartment to their political cronies."

"Which would include Harriet's needy relatives from Maine, I suppose," Werner added.

"Apparently so. And, all the while, our blithe and trusting Carol, bless her heart, continues to knock herself out looking for a new job so she won't be evicted. Except that the fix is in. It's abundantly clear she won't get one until she gives up the flat."

"Oh, just listen to the two of you!" Carol mocked. "Must you always be so conspiratorial?"

"And did or did you not receive an eviction notice last week?" Linda pressed.

"I most certainly did not!" Carol protested, her cheeks reddening. But Werner could see that it was a lie even before Linda stepped in to expose it.

"Don't, Carol, please," Linda responded gently, laying a comforting hand on her friend's knee. "Even if all else fails, we must never stop speaking the truth to friends. The Medical Center received a copy. There's no point in denying it."

"Well, then, I did receive it," Carol conceded, "but it's not nearly as dire an event as you seem to think it is. These things always take more time than anyone expects and the order can be withdrawn if I get another job first."

"If. If," Linda objected. "Listen to yourself, Carol. You're putting your property and your person in jeopardy every day you stay here. Why don't you accept the hand that fate has dealt you? We could have a mover here tomorrow to pack your furniture into storage while you come to live with me. There's plenty of room for all three of us. Now, what do you say to my generous offer?"

Carol Dodge's eyes filled with tears. All at once she threw her arms around her friend's neck and began to sob uncontrollably. When at last she recovered she accepted Werner's handkerchief to dry her tears.

"I feel so defeated," Carol confessed. "I've never failed like this before. I feel like there's no place for me anymore."

"Of course there's a place for you, Carol," Linda soothed. "You just have to stop going to the hardware store for milk. So start over. Try something radically different, something you've always wanted to do but didn't dare try. Why, just the other day I met the most wonderful man from Concord, a Mr. Motley, a former teacher at the Academy there. He has been recruiting doctors for Concord and told me they are simply desperate for pediatricians. Perhaps you could speak with him."

"Concord? That's so odd. Years ago Peter and I came very close to buying a house there. Of all the towns we looked at, Concord was by far my favorite."

"Name a time and I'll set it up for you," Werner volunteered. "I know Parker well. He taught my daughters."

Carol's eyes met Werner's and a grin spread across her face.

"Really? You could do that for me?"

"Tomorrow, if you want," he proposed. "Listen, here's my suggestion. Why don't you pack a small bag and stay at Linda's tonight. I just ran into some of those demonstrators outside and, if they're homeless refugees, I'm the President–for–Life. Somebody powerful appears to be backing them and, the more I think about it, Harriet may actually be right for a change. I smell trouble tonight."

"But what about all my things?" Carol asked uneasily. "If they break in, they could make off with everything."

"It takes longer than one night to loot an entire building," Werner assured her. "Even a professional mover couldn't do it. But, just to be on the safe side, when you leave, use the back door and don't let anyone see you go. Especially ‘you know who.’ And don't take anything larger than a shoulder bag, so they'll think you're coming back tonight."

"We can each carry a bag," Linda volunteered. "You should definitely bring the silver."

"And if you want to leave a list for me on the kitchen table, I'll come back after the Club closes and load a backpack or a suitcase for you. It ought to be quieter by then. If I see anything, I'll be sure to call the police."

"What a marvelous idea!" Linda declared. "Carol, why don't you pack a bag for him right now? Will there be a safe place for it at the Club?"

"I'll lock it in Jake's office. It's as good as Fort Knox."

****

Frank Werner's last night as proprietor of the Somerset Club bar passed without incident. Monday nights were generally slow and Werner was careful not to tell anyone other than Jake that he was selling the business or leaving the Club. He wanted no farewell party, no reminiscences, no attention whatsoever.

Just after eleven o'clock, Werner left Steve in charge while he took a break to visit Jake's office. All the arrangements having been made earlier in the day for the sale of the bar business and Werner's inventory of spirits, Jake had drawn enough cash to pay Werner in full.

Upon seeing Werner enter the room, Hagopian removed a manila envelope from a file cabinet and laid it on his desk.

"Would you like to count it?" Hagopian asked with a bemused smile.

"Yes, but only to make you feel better, Jake. You know, I'm really not as simple–minded as I look. You’re getting a genuine steal at this price. Next week you'll turn around and sell the club and the bar together for a fortune. You ought to thank me for this, Jake."

"Oh, I do thank you. Very much indeed," the old man replied jovially. "And, yes, I do happen to have a buyer willing to pay an attractive price for the Club. But that's why I bought it in the first place. And it's why I took a chance on you. I'm very happy that it worked out for both of us."

"It did," Werner agreed, picking up the envelope. "You've been a great friend, Jake. I'll miss you."

"So where will you go next?" Hagopian inquired.

"I'm thinking of opening a bar in Utah," Werner mused. "With the Mormon Church gone, they've gone back to drinking out there, big–time. It could be a good place for a high–end watering hole. And I always did plan to go back there once I found my daughter."

"Why not? Those folks need whiskey as much as everyone else, I suppose," Hagopian mused.

"What's more," Werner confessed, "my girlfriend lost her apartment. Without a residence permit in the town, I'd be out on the street again. I'm too old for camping, Jake. I want a place of my own."

Werner opened the clasp on the envelope and laid four bundles of banknotes on the desk.

"You go ahead and count," Jake urged. "I'll pour." And with that, Jake Hagopian reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and brought out a bottle of his cherished Armenian brandy and two heavy shot glasses.

****

The clock on the wall at the Somerset Club bar read fifteen minutes to twelve when Werner left Jake's office and returned to his post behind the counter. The last patron had paid his tab and all the stools were empty. Since Steve had already finished cleaning the counters and sinks, Werner dismissed him and suggested that he pay a visit to Jake's office the next morning to receive some good news about a possible promotion. Steve thanked him warmly and probed for further details but, as Werner would reveal none, the younger man offered Werner a vigorous handshake and set off for home.

A moment later, after putting his jiggers, shakers, strainers, and muddlers in their proper places on the shelf behind him, Werner turned around to find a nattily dressed middle–aged man occupying the barstool directly across from him.

The man wore a brown tweed sport coat and gray flannel trousers, his hunter–green knit tie fastened low to his starched white shirt with a gold tie bar. He removed his olive loden hat and laid it on the stool beside him. The man was Dave Lewis.

"Still time for a quick nightcap, bartender?" Lewis asked with a roguish smile.

"Sure, partner, name your poison," Werner responded easily.

"How about a shot of your best bourbon."

"Do you have a particular brand in mind?"

The visitor shook his head.

"What brand do you drink, bartender?"

"Me, I drink the bar whiskey and save the good stuff for the customers," Werner answered.

"Then bar whiskey it is. Make it a double, straight up. And pour one for yourself. We'll drink to Kamas. May we never hear that name again. And we'll hoist another to your team. Fine men, all of them."

Werner pulled a bottle with a torn label from under the bar and filled two shot glasses to the rim. Each man let the whiskey glide down his throat until his glass was empty.

"I understand you're leaving soon," Lewis remarked upon setting his glass on the bar and letting out a contented sigh. "Your timing is good. Your work is finished here, Frank. It's time to move on."

The comment struck Werner as odd, particularly since he had told no one of his plans, but he let it pass.

"Another round?" he asked the visitor.

"Sure, if you have one, I'll join you."

Werner crouched low to reach for another bottle under the counter but when he rose, Dave Lewis had disappeared.

****

Frank Werner noticed the flames on Harvard Street even before his train reached the Coolidge Corner Station. The moment the sliding doors opened, he tucked his duffel under his arm like a football and set off at a run toward Carol Dodge's apartment building.

Police cars and fire trucks already blocked the street and firemen scurried to roll out their hoses and connect them to the nearest fire hydrants. Tall yellow flames reached out from most first– and second–floor windows and dense clouds of smoke billowed from the roof and windows of the topmost floors. It appeared to Werner that the building was lost before the battle had even begun.

Werner elbowed his way through the crowd to the section of the police cordon nearest the building and stared in awe at the inferno. He thanked God that he had urged Carol and Linda to leave that afternoon but prayed all the same that neither of them had returned to retrieve more valuables. To lose all her worldly possessions would deal Carol a heavy blow, but it seemed to Werner that such an event might be what was required to send her life in a new and more positive direction. Perhaps Concord could offer her that.

No sooner had Werner completed this thought than he saw a woman wriggle free from the straps holding her to a stretcher near a waiting ambulance. The woman wore jeans and an oversized white t–shirt darkened by soot and smoke. She ran to the nearest fireman and seized his arm as if to drag him toward the burning building.

"You've got to save them!" she screamed. "There are people inside! Come, I'll take you there! Please, come quickly!"

But the fireman was of a different mind. He encircled her petite figure with his arms and gently herded her back toward the ambulance, where emergency workers rushed forward to retrieve her. In the glare from the portable light stands surrounding the fire trucks Werner had a clear view of her face and realized that the woman was Harriet Waterman.

At that moment conflicting thoughts flashed before Werner's mind. Foremost was the fear that Harriet Waterman might be right and that Carol and Linda could still be trapped in the building. In an instant Werner reversed course and bulldozed his way back through the crowd. He ran to the first shop he could find that was still open, a twenty–four–hour pharmacy.

Werner set his duffel on the floor, pulled a twenty–dollar banknote from his wallet and asked if he might make a local phone call. The turbaned pharmacist stroked his graying beard and accepted the money with an unctuous smile before withdrawing a phone from under the counter.

Werner dialed Linda Holt's number and heard her groggy voice answer on the fifth ring.

"Hello," she responded sleepily. "Who is this?"

"Yes!" he mouthed silently while holding his left hand tightly across the mouthpiece.

A moment later Carol Dodge joined the call on an extension.

"Hello?" she answered in an annoyed voice that was music to Werner's ears.

But Werner said nothing. When the pharmacist gave him a puzzled look and opened his mouth to speak Werner raised a hand to silence him.

"Carol?" Linda asked. "Did you pick up, too?"

"Yes," Carol responded. "But I don't hear anyone on the line. Must be a wrong number."

That was all Werner needed to hear. He pressed the button to end the call.

Both women were now accounted for while he was precisely the opposite. Aside from the women's safety, Werner could scarcely believe the miraculous piece of luck that had just landed in his lap.

"Please accept this gift from me, my friend," he told the pharmacist, holding out another twenty New Dollars. "All I ask is that you forget you ever saw me. Will you do that, my friend?"

"For a valued customer like you, Sir, most definitely," the Indian answered in a singsong voice.

Werner handed him the banknote, returned the phone, and walked out the door onto the darkened street.

****

Two hours later Werner glanced at his watch, which read ten minutes before three a.m. He finished the dregs of his third cup of coffee and left the all–night diner on Beacon Street where he had sat with his duffel since leaving the pharmacy shortly after one in the morning.

The night air felt refreshingly cold on his face as he continued west on Beacon for three more blocks before withdrawing into the shadows at the edge of a parking lot. There he waited until an eighteen–wheeled tractor–trailer slowed down and turned on its high beams as if its driver were trying to read a street sign.

Werner stepped quickly to the curb and waved at the driver: a sturdily built black man in his late forties with a neatly trimmed beard. The driver lowered his beams and opened the cab's passenger door. Werner climbed in and strapped on his seatbelt.

"Ready for a road trip?" the driver asked with a welcoming smile.

"Never been more ready in my life, Jonah," Werner answered as he settled back into his seat. "But there's been a slight change in plan. Tell me, how far south are you going on this run?"

"This one's to Orlando," Jonah Tucker replied.

"Then I'm with you, Jonah. All the way."

"No stop in New Jersey?"

"Nope. Going to the end of the line. And then some."

"That'll be just fine by me," Tucker said. "But I thought you were headed back to Utah. To settle down, I mean. When we first met on the way out here, that's all you ever wanted to talk about. That and your daughter, anyway. What happened? Change of heart?"

"Yep. Change of heart, all right," Werner replied with a boyish grin. "I've decided to go deep sea fishing."

"Fishing!" Tucker exclaimed. "I've never heard you talk about no damned fishing! What do you know about deep sea fishing, anyway?"

"Nothing at all, Jonah. But I know a man with a fishing boat who's going to take me out with him. And I have a really good feeling about what I'm going to find out there."

And as if to reassure himself, Werner zipped open his duffel one more time and unclasped the manila envelope inside. There he found four bundles of banknotes, a letter from his daughter Marie, a card in Hector Alvarez's handwriting with the name and address of a charter boat operator in South Florida and a U.S. passport in the name of Harvey Konig showing a photograph of Frank Werner.

****

Preston Fleming was born in Cleveland, Ohio. He left home at fourteen to accept a scholarship at a New England boarding school and went on to a liberal arts college in the Midwest. After earning an MBA, he managed a non–profit organization in New York before joining the U.S. Foreign Service and serving in U.S. Embassies around the Middle East for nearly a decade. Later he studied at an Ivy League law school and has since pursued a career in law and business. Preston lives in Boston with his wife and two children. He has written five novels.

E–mail: preston@prestonfleming.com

Table of Contents

- Title
- Copyright
- Contents
- Dedication

- 1. Zero Day: Saturday, May 11, 2029 Weston, Massachusetts

- 2. ONE MONTH EARLIER Wednesday, April 11, 2029 Somerset Club, Beacon Hill, Boston

- 3. Flashback: Friday, March 30, 2029 Brookline, Massachusetts

- 4. Thursday, April 12, 2029, Boston

- 5. Friday, April 13, 2029 Concord, Massachusetts

- 6. Saturday, April 14, 2029 Waltham, Massachusetts

- 7. Flashback: September, 2027 Highway I-93, Central New Hampshire

- 8. Sunday, April 15, 2029 Jamaica Plain, Boston

- 9. Monday, April 16, 2029, Cambridge, Massachusetts

- 10. Wednesday, April 18, 2029, Boston

- 11. Flashback: Mid-April, 2026 Mactung Mine, Yukon Territory

- 12. Saturday, May 11, 2029, Boston

- 13. Saturday, April 21, 2029 Weston, Massachusetts

- 14. Flashback: Late June, 2024 Kamas, Utah
- 15. Sunday, May 12, 2029 Back Bay, Boston
- 16. Tuesday, May 14, 2029 Back Bay, Boston
- 17. Friday, May 17, 2029, Boston
- 18. Flashback: Early May, 2024 Kamas, Utah
- 19. Sunday, May 19, 2029 Back Bay, Boston

- 20. Monday, May 20, 2029 Brookline, Massachusetts