by S. Robertson
* * *
United States, Boston: Sword & Anchor Bar & Grill
A hybrid cab screeched to a stop. A tall male figure stepped out, his limp becoming more pronounced as he strolled along the upscale street in the Back Bay area of Boston. Hesitating in front of the Sword and Anchor, Bar & Grill signage Wolfram smiled, “The old place has had a face lift. Amazing what a bit of paint and renovations can do. This was once my second home. I wonder if it’s under new management?” Wolfram Stark opened the door.
A familiar voice rang out, “Well, I’ll be damned,” the comments coming from a jovial, well proportioned figure who stepped out of the back shadows. “Hey everyone looks who’s here,” yelled Dillon Clancy, the owner, as he barged forward to enclose Wolfram in a bear hug. Wolfram winced. “It’s been too long my dear Wolf, or have you dropped your old musician’s name?”
“Some still remember,” replied Wolfram disengaging himself from the bighearted welcome. “I actually like it.”
“That was one hell of an accident you had. How are you doing?” Dillon stepped back to assess his new arrival. “Your hair has a distinguished white streak now wandering through that black mop and I see you’re hobbling.”
“Dillon, it’s been a long hard road. I’m still in therapy.” Shifting position and leaning against the counter, he continued, “This left leg is still a problem but according to my doctors it’s a miracle I’m walking at all. Changing the subject, I see you’ve gone uptown?”
“De ya like it, me boy?” Dillon said with a wink. “I had to keep up with the Jones. The community went upscale a year ago with expensive condos and boutiques. It’s good for business but I’d do even better with some great music. I don’t suppose you, Morgan and company have any plans for a come back? Celtic music is all the rage.”
“Not likely, Dillon, the old gang has scattered. The last I heard from Jake and Zoe was that they were heading west for new jobs. But Morgan should be along shortly. He’s now fulltime in the Boston University history department. He’ll be taking the ‘T’ commuter rail as parking around here is a nightmare. I took a cab as I need to travel carefully these days.”
“I expect you left the police force after the accident? So, are you doing anything except healing these days?” asked Dillon, with genuine concern.
“Isn’t it ironic, Dillon, I fought against joining my grandfather’s antique business for years and here I am doing investigations into fraudulent antiques. I’m even getting referrals from other cities. Been at this for over a year and business is picking up.”
“Crooks are everywhere,” said Dillon with a grin, “which, in your case is good for business. I think it’s a perfect match, your police training with your family’s business. As I recall, didn’t you also get your law degree from Boston University?”
“Yes, through part-time studies. I had just obtained my degree and had one more week at the police station when the accident happened. I got a small disability pension which helps.”
“While you’re waiting for Morgan can I get you something?” asked Dillon, “It’s on the house for old times’ sake.”
“A burger, fries and salad would hit the spot or is that too plebian for your high class joint?”
“For you, it’s been reinstated,” said Dillon as he patted Wolfram on the shoulder and headed for the kitchen. “Your old booth awaits you by the window.”
“Dillon, light on the fries and generous with the salad,” called Wolf, who, grown weary from standing, moved to sit down. Looking out the old familiar window onto the street, he began reminiscing over former days, a past musical world. Several staff came to welcome him back.
In the kitchen Dillon thought to himself. “The boy has aged. That accident took a toll on him. I wonder if he can even play the guitar. What a shame. He’s spunky. There’s lots of steel in those pale blue eyes under the glasses. I wonder how Morgan, the old Red Fox is doing. I haven’t seen him in some time. That group had magic in their music. The modern stuff gives people indigestion.”
Wolfram had spent most of his 36 years with his grandparents, Gracelyn and Tyloar Harrison, who owned a high-end antique business in the city. He had little contact with his parents. His mother, the Harrison’s only child, became a flower child in the post Woodstock era and spent her life floating in and out of mental health and drug addiction clinics. Mentally frail, she now lived in Arizona. He never met his father who was from a Texan family. He played lead guitar in a Rock band for years and, it was rumored, ended up on drugs somewhere in Los Angeles. Perhaps his parent’s broken lives led Wolfram into the police force.
Growing up in his grandparent’s antique business, it was assumed he would follow that course after high school. To their chagrin, at 21, he decided to enter the Boston Police Academy. After a few years, he grew restless doing routine police work, and, at 30, enrolled in a combination business/law degree program at Boston University. He chose courses with an emphasis on the identification and prosecution of fraud cases, especially those with international connections. The benefits of his studies came to the fore when he was recovering from his accident. His grandparents helped him in setting up an investigative business; referring clients to help him get started. As his expertise spread, his clientele increased.
During his rehabilitation, his grandmother took him aside and told him about the family legacy. Going to their home safe, Gracelyn brought out a small gold and silver engraved box containing a marquis cut sapphire. She indicated that the guardianship of this stone would be his after her death, even though the usual recipient should be female. She explained that the female line was used to ensure safety as tracing women was more complex in male dominated societies. She then informed him that, to her knowledge, there were eight gemstones belonging to some ancient medallion. Each family knew the names of only two guardians of the gemstones. Gracelyn had one contact in Canada and another in Australia. Because this guardianship had existed for over three hundred years, Gracelyn assumed the gemstones had been globally scattered by now, if they still existed. To substantiate the story, Wolfram discreetly had the sapphire examined and found that it was of exquisite quality, likely very old, and had been customized for some piece of jewelry. However, his search for a secret 1600s medallion hit a dead end. For this reason he contacted his old friend, Morgan Mandelthrope.
Eventually, Morgan barged through the door, oblivious of any changes to the bar.
As he passed the front desk, Dillon called after him, “Morgan do you want something to eat?”
“Just coffee,” mumbled Morgan, making a bee line for Wolfram.
“That’s a first” said Dillon to himself. “The old Morgan had a hollow leg.”
As he approached, Wolfram looked up and asked, “Fox, old buddy, I’ve never seen you so upset. What’s wrong? You were rambling on the phone.”
Morgan, two years older than Wolfram, was a short, wiry individual known for his sing-song manner of speaking, and a fascination, bordering on fanaticism, about anything Celtic. His rumpled attire, and red bushy hair and beard gave him a badge of nonconformity at Boston University, features which endeared him to his students but not to the university elite. He loved telling stories and would burst into an Irish/Scots folk song at the drop of a hat. Taught to play the fiddle by his maternal grandfather at the age of six, he had become a gifted musician, a skill which made him irreplaceable in the “Animals” musical group. It was not surprising that some labeled him Boston’s own leprechaun,’ a title he relished. But today there was little joviality in his manner as he plunked himself down on the bench facing Wolfram.
Morgan’s father wanted him to become an accountant to follow him into the corporate world. Morgan hated numbers and rebelled after the first year of studies. He shifted to history where he excelled. His Celtic bent had propelled him to being one of the country’s noteworthy scholars. So, when Wolfram approached him with a Celtic mystery he plunged into the research. But much to his angst, time dragged on with little to show fo
r his effort.
Morgan, forcing himself to be calm, began, “Months ago you asked me to look into whether that 17th century medallion your grandmother mentioned was real or not.”
“Yeh, when I didn’t hear from you I thought you likely reached the same dead end as I had,” as he watched his friend closely.
“Well, like you, I found nothing in the university archives and, as we agreed, I contacted two colleagues, one in Ireland and the other in Scotland, both experts in Celtic history. They also seemed to be hitting blanks until a few weeks ago my Irish contact, Kevyn O’Gratteney, e-mailed me to say he had found and deciphered a seventeenth century code which mentioned a secret. He was going to dig further.”
“That should have been good news, right?” replied Wolfram, still trying to grasp the problem.
“Wrong,” snapped Morgan, “investigating this secret medallion may have awakened ancient demons.” Pausing to catch his breath, he continued. “I was away at a conference this past weekend and did not pick up my e-mails until this morning.” Pulling papers from a nylon case he dropped them on the table. “Read the last four paragraphs of O’Gratteney’s e-mail!” Unable to wait he continued, “See where O’Gratteney says his computer, particularly our contact file, had been hacked………… He even names the culprit.”
Wolfram, noting the rising tension in his friend’s voice, sought to calm him by saying, “Just a minute, give me a chance to read this. ……..All right, so his computer was hacked, it happens. He admits that he has little information on the secret let alone a medallion or gemstones. What’s the problem?”
Fox’s voice rose an octave “When I called to talk to O’Gratteney, I discovered he was dead………. a car accident!”
“Dead,” Wolfram was startled by the news. “What happened?”
“Apparently, on a rainy night going to his parked car some distance from the university he stepped out onto a side road and was hit by a car. The driver didn’t stop.”
“It sounds like a hit and run, so?” Wolfram was still unruffled.
“A student witness said the car deliberately aimed at O’Gratteney. The Dublin police force, the Gardai, is investigating the accident as a homicide.”
“Fox, even if it is a homicide, it may have nothing to do with the medallion. After all, you don’t know everything about this guy, do you?” Wolfram continued to downplay the event but his police instincts had been stimulated.
Dillon brought Wolfram’s food and again, looking at Morgan asked “You sure you don’t want something?”
“On second thought, I’m starving. I’ll have the same, but more fries,” replied Morgan, feeling better now that he had someone to talk to.
“That’s the old Red Fox. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” said Dillon half way across the room.
Morgan continued, “I guess I’m overreacting. Your right, there could be another explanation. To tell you the truth Wolfram, I was heart sick with worry that I might have caused someone’s death.”
“Morgan is there anything you are not telling me?” asked Wolfram, knowing his old friend well and recognizing his hesitancy.
“Well……….. maybe,” replied Morgan, then taking his time .………“I’m afraid in one of my relaxed meanderings I may have given O’Gratteney the name of the Canadian woman on Prince Edward Island who has one of the gemstones.”
Alarmed and angry, I replied, “What! You idiot! You promised me you would not divulge any names. Did you also slip my name or my grandmother’s in one of your meanderings?”
“No, no other names. So help me. Just one slip,” replied Morgan, seeing his friend’s anger.
“OK, let’s reassess the situation. Assuming the most positive scenario, perhaps O’Gratteney overplayed his suspicions, as this was the first time anyone hacked into his computer. And let’s say, the car accident was, however horrendous, a straight forward hit and run. This means that your concerns are likely needless. Nevertheless, let’s err on the side of caution. I’ll contact Josh Alder. He’s the best guy I know on electronic issues. Let’s get the medallion files off your computers. How many are we talking about?” Wolfram’s noble efforts at reducing his friend’s anxiety had increased his own. His immediate reaction was to block access to further information, although by now he knew that Antonino had O’Gratteney’s material, whatever it contained. Next he had to get a handle on this Antonino by contacting some old law enforcement colleagues.
“Just one, my office computer; the lap top I use for research. These days I do very little work at home,” replied Morgan, feeling sheepish at his indiscretion.
Wolfram pulled out his cell phone, “I’ll see if I can get Josh to meet us today.” While Morgan dove into the food, Dillon had delivered; Wolfram contacted Josh giving him a brief explanation for his call. A meeting was possible and in closing he turned to Morgan and asked, “What’s your office address again?”
“226 Bay State Road, 3rd floor,” replied Morgan, finishing his lunch.
“OK Josh, we’ll meet you about 4 at Morgan’s office.” Wolfram closed his cell phone and continued. “There, we’ll get Josh’s help and seal this matter until we find out more about this Antonino. Right now, we have some free time, so let’s relax and chat with Dillon about happier times. I’ll get a cab about 3.”
Morgan, relieved, replied, “Your right, I’m magnifying the whole thing. My lips are sealed. No one knows it was you who asked for this research. It’s so good to have a friend like you Wolfram. I may know the frailties’ and oddities of university life but criminals are totally out of my league.”
“Unless they are Celtic rogues,” Wolfram said with a chuckle.
“Well that’s another matter. But they existed in another century. That’s easier,” replied Morgan with a smile, the first since he arrived.
Dillon joined them for a chat. While Morgan and Dillon rambled on about their glory days as musicians Wolfram began thinking, “The worst case scenario is equally possible. This Antonino could already be en route to North America and, if that hit and run is a sample of his tactics, then trouble is heading our way. Time is of the essence. Investigating this 1600s secret may have opened a Pandora’s Box.”
* * *
Escape from Britain
The catalyst to Antonino’s behavior arrived weeks before. By registered mail, he received an official letter from the church stating he had been dismissed as a priest because of his abusive tactics in a Roman Catholic boy’s school in Italy. He was furious. Pacing up and down waving the letter, he ranted, “Bureaucratic baboons. Stupid, sanctimonious idiots! Who are they to judge me? I could write books on some of their activities. Twenty years down the drain. Wasted time……Wasted money……… Wasted energy. Years of bending to church rules, ingratiating myself to superiors, and collecting favors, all for nothing. My father was right. He had scant regard for priests and thought I’d do better in business. At least by now I’d have something to show for my efforts. Instead, here I am, middle aged with no livelihood, no future and no pension. May they all burn in hell.” This event sent Antonino on the prowl.
Using his intellect and cunning, Antonino had set a trap. Kevyn revealed his hand in accepting a free document but his electronic data only hinted at the medallion’s existence.” Kevyn’s electronic data had one name, a slip in an e-mail from his Boston colleague. It was the name of an elderly woman living on a small Canadian island. “A beginning,” thought Antonino. “A small city will make it easier to find her. But it’s risky. A wrong move could spook both the police and my prey.”
Antonino, the oldest of eight children, was born into a small Calabria farming community. His father, a sergeant in command of the local Carabineer, was known for his ruthless flogging of offenders. His mother also bullied the slave children on their farm. Slave children were at the bottom of the social roster. For centuries they came from parts of Calabria and Sicily, parents selling their children to make ends meet, a dark secret ignored by the Italian press. Brought up in this a
tmosphere, Antonino had no qualms in using the same tactics on children under his care. He enjoyed inflicting pain on defenseless small boys, and for years, under an umbrella of fear, he was able to hide his actions. But the church’s growing intolerance of abuse gave his enemies ammunition against him. His abuse was documented and reported to the hierarchy. A trial of sorts was held with witnesses coming forth to describe their ordeal, some threatening to go to the media and sue the church, an intolerable situation for a church trying to mend its record.
To get him away from his accusers and the press, Antonino was expelled to Ireland for an indefinite period of time while church lawyers considered his fate. As months passed Antonino knew his future was becoming more and more precarious no matter how many favors he called in for support.
His new companion, Rudolfo Marquis, was a 45 year old petty criminal with an Italian police record. Suspected of fraud and murder in a recent gang roundup, he was on the run and grateful to have an escape. With the help of Antonino’s relatives, Rudolfo arrived in Britain under a false passport and would be leaving under another.
Rudolfo grew up on the streets of Calabria leaving him with an unquenchable desire for money, and a blank conscious in acquiring it. Having killed a man at 20, he had spent over twenty years in trouble with the law, including five years incarceration, a situation he never wanted repeated. He thought himself debonair, but his overall rough demeanor made him uncomfortable away from his own kind. The bargain was that in payment for doing Antonino’s dirty work he would be introduced to important American underworld contacts. Before leaving Italy, Rudolfo learned that Antonino was one of those individuals who had contacts on both sides of the law. Antonino floated easily back and forth, depending on his needs. Thus he had little difficulty in acquiring a false passport for Rudolfo.
