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 t
aken 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.
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