David Morrell - Fraternity of the Stone

by Fraternity of the Stone(lit)

  "I don't know what you're talking about. I've always felt close to you."

  "Save it. I'm not impressed. So I figured I'd better not jump to conclusions. But I didn't want to be stupid, either. I decided to test you. A phone call; a plea for help to someone I'd once depended on. A chance for you to prove your loyalty. And Uncle Ray, guess what? You failed."

  "Now wait a minute."

  "No. You wait. You've had your chance. I want an explanation. For Christ's sake, why? I know you used what happened to my parents to recruit me for Scalpel."

  "Drew, stop. Don't say any more!"

  But furious, Drew kept on. "At the time, that was what I wanted, though. A chance to get even for what happened to my parents. I can almost forgive you. But why did you hit the monastery?"

  "I told you to stop! We're still on an unsecured phone! I can't discuss it on... "

  "Okay, I'll call you back, and then, by God, you'd better have a phone that's safe. Give me the number."

  Ray did. Drew made him repeat it, writing it down.

  "There's just one other thing," Drew said. "After you hang up, I want you to leave your office, go past the receptionist, and look in the hall."

  "What will that prove?"

  "You'll understand. After you've looked in the hall, I think you ought to phone home. The mansion north of the city? The estate by the Bay?"

  "How did you know about that?"

  "I've got contacts, too. Just do what I told you. I know you're trying to trace this call, so I'll hang up now. I'll phone back in fifteen minutes. On another line."

  "No, wait!"

  Drew broke the connection. He made another call, this one to Arlene, who was at a phone booth across the Charles River in Cambridge. The phone booth was near an office building, the fifth floor of which was rented in part by the Risk Analysis Corporation.

  Early that morning, Father Stanislaw had driven Drew and Arlene past the building. They'd chosen the phone booth and written down its number. Since 10 a.m., Arlene had been waiting there for Drew to report to her. He'd done so periodically, and now, as before, she answered quickly.

  "Is everything ready?"

  "No problem," she said.

  "Then press the button."

  He left the phone booth. Heading north toward Commonwealth Avenue, he smiled with angry satisfaction, imagining what was now taking place. The button he'd told Arlene to press was on a radio transmitter that sent a signal to a detonator in a shopping bag she'd left in the fifth-floor hall of the office building, outside the suite rented by the Risk Analysis Corporation.

  Uncle Ray - curious why Drew had told him to look outside in the hall - should have seen the bag by now. With luck, he would even see it explode.

  But the blast would be small. Drew didn't want people hurt, though they'd certainly be alarmed and inconvenienced. The minuscule blast would fill the hallway with smoke, and the smoke would have such a horrible odor that the entire floor, perhaps the entire building, would have to be evacuated.

  To add to the confusion, Arlene would by now have phoned the fire department, the police, the 911 line, the bomb squad. The street outside the building would soon be in chaos as police cars and fire engines converged, lights flashing, sirens wailing; they'd snarl traffic during rush hour. Drew's satisfaction swelled. It would be a mess, all right. A wonderful mess.

  But there was more. As soon as Arlene completed her calls to the authorities, she'd make yet another - this one to Father Stanislaw, who'd earlier checked in by phone with her, just as Drew had been doing, and who had told her the number where he could be reached. In the village near Uncle Ray's country estate.

  6

  Halfway through the first ring, Ray picked up the phone. "You son of a bitch! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  "Watch your temper."

  "Temper? I'm just getting started. For Christ's sake, the stench of that smoke, I swear to God it's in the walls - in the carpet, the furniture! I'll never get rid of it. I might have to move the fucking office!"

  "Such language. Did you call home?"

  "That's something else, you bastard. Somebody set a bomb off in my front yard! I don't mean a stink bomb like the one in the hall. I mean a bomb!"

  "It must have been local vandals," Drew said, his heart cold.

  "Local, my ass! Just what do you think you're -?"

  "Uncle Ray, don't disappoint me. I thought the message was perfectly clear. I'm angry. You betrayed me. Not just with that hit team you sent. I sort of expected that. But you used me from the start. You took advantage of what happened to my parents to recruit me for Scalpel. The thing is, I guess it slipped your mind at the time, huh? You forgot to tell me that you organized Scalpel, that you were in charge of it."

  "I won't apologize. I loved your parents. Your father was the closest friend I had! You and I, both of us wanted revenge."

  "But you reached too far. You weren't satisfied with fighting back at mercenaries and terrorists."

  "The same type of scum who killed your parents. Remember that!"

  "I never disagreed. I did my share of killing. For the sake of my parents. But you weren't satisfied with exterminating rabid dogs. You had to start predicting the future, judging which leaders fit your standards. In Iran, the Shah had his terror squads and his torture chambers. But you didn't hit him. Instead, you had to try to assassinate the man who replaced him."

  "The Ayatollah's insane."

  "In hindsight. But you didn't know that at the time. You were playing God. The trouble is, I screwed up the hit. And so did you. Because you made the mistake of sending me to kill that American family first, that oil executive who was trying to grease the wheels with the Ayatollah. I have to give you the credit. The alibi for Scalpel would have been perfect. After the Ayatollah was killed in the same way that American family was -after a non-existent radical sect of Iranians claimed both hits - no one would have suspected that an American network was actually responsible. Brilliant in its own twisted way. But you screwed it up. You should have sent someone else to do the job. When I saw the parents I'd killed, and the boy who survived like me, who now has to suffer the nightmares I did... "

  "You're not making sense!"

  "Perfect sense. I'd turned into the maniacs I was hunting. Worse, I'd got religion. I wasn't dependable any longer. I might have even talked about Scalpel. So I had to be terminated. To protect your glorious plan."

  "Drew, listen, you've got it wrong. This is all a misunderstanding."

  "You bet it is. And you're the one who doesn't understand!" Drew fought to get control of himself.

  "Believe me, Drew, you don't realize how important -"

  "You're right. I don't realize. After you thought I was dead, why did you use my double to pretend he was me? Why did you create Janus to attack the Church?"

  Uncle Ray didn't answer.

  "I asked you a question!" Drew screamed.

  "No." Ray swallowed. "Even on a safe phone. I won't answer that."

  "Oh, you will." Drew raged. "Believe me. That stink bomb at your office... The explosion at your home. You wondered why? To get your attention. Because the shopping bag in the hall outside your office could have been a real bomb. It could have blown you and your staff to hell. And the explosion at your home? It could have been bigger. It could have blasted your whole damned mansion apart - when you were in it! Next time, maybe that'll happen. Count your blessings. Count the seconds. I'm about to give you a taste of your enemy, Uncle Ray. You're about to get a crash course in terrorism. From the victim's side."

  "No, listen!"

  "I'll be in touch."

  7

  Arlene was puzzled. "But... "

  "What's wrong?" Drew asked. "What is it?"

  Father Stanislaw waited, curious.

  They'd rendezvoused across from Boston Common at the Park Street Church; from there, they'd driven to Beacon Hill, where they sat now at a gleaming glass-and-metal kitchen table in an oak-paneled townhouse. One of Father Sta
nislaw's Opus Dei contacts had arranged to have it lent to them for the next few days.

  "I don't understand," Arlene said. "If you told Ray you planned to blow up his home and his office, he'll have them guarded. He'll stay away from them."

  Drew nodded. "That would be my guess."

  "But doesn't that make it harder for us?"

  "Maybe easier." Drew shrugged. "I hope. What I'm trying to do is skip a few steps. We knew from the start that we couldn't just make a grab for him. Since the monastery, he's been hunting me. He'd be a fool if he hadn't increased protection around himself, in case I figured out who was after me and decided to start hunting him. Believe me, I know him well. He isn't stupid."

  "All right." Arlene raised her hands. "I see that. I agree. As soon as we tried to grab him, we'd have been killed. But why did you warn him there'd be other bombs?"

  "I want to weaken his defenses, to surround him with distractions. The guards he orders to watch his home and his office will mean he has less guards to protect himself. You're right. He'll be so nervous he'll stay away from those places. But that's to the good. We've restricted his movements. We've gained the same effect as if we did blow them up. What I want to do now is escalate our attacks. Make each one more serious than the last. Strike where we're least expected. Do it more often. Use the basic principles of terrorism."

  "But why'?" She seemed distressed by his evident joy in terrorizing Ray.

  He avoided her searching eyes. "I'm not sure what you mean."

  "But I do," Father Stanislaw said. "I think she wants to know where all of this is leading. Is your ultimate purpose to kill him?"

  Drew tensed, evading the question. "We have to get our hands on him. We need more answers."

  "To learn about Jake. To find out what happened to him," Arlene said quickly.

  "But in the end?" Father Stanislaw asked.

  They stared at Drew.

  "In honesty?" the priest asked.

  They waited.

  Drew sighed. "I wish I knew." He frowned at his grim reflection off the shiny glass table. "For so many years, I fought back at substitutes for the bastards who killed my parents. I let them know how terror feels on the receiving end. But then I walked away in disgust. I made a sacred vow that I was through. And now, here I am, right back doing it again. The truth? I hate to admit this. Today, it felt as good as it used to." Drew stared toward Father Stanislaw. His eyes felt hot and moist.

  "Even God gets angry sometimes," the priest said. "If the cause is just. And make no mistake, this cause - to protect the Church, to stop the attacks against it, to find out what happened to Jake - this cause is just. God will forgive your righteous anger."

  "But will I forgive myself?"

  The phone rang, startling them. As Drew and Arlene glanced uneasily at one another, Father Stanislaw crossed the kitchen toward the phone on an oaken wall. "Hello?" He listened. "And with your spirit. Deo gra-tias." He reached for a pad and pencil. "Good." He finished writing. "Your Church is pleased."

  Hanging up, he turned toward Drew and Arlene. "My contacts apparently aren't as well placed as Uncle Ray's. He needed only twenty minutes to trace the number you gave him, the phone booth on Falmouth Street. But we needed several hours to trace the number of the safe phone he gave you."

  "You've got the location?" Drew asked.

  Father Stanislaw nodded. "As you suspected, the phone isn't in the Risk Analysis office. Instead, it's two blocks down the street. A florist shop. But not the business phone. A private number, unlisted."

  "Is he there now?"

  The priest shook his head. "But he's been calling there, checking in with his surveillance team. It seems they're still checking the area in case you're around. We managed to trace one call he made to that number." Father Stanislaw set the slip of paper on the glass table. "As close as we can tell, this is where Uncle Ray is."

  Drew studied the address.

  8

  In the night, Drew walked yet again around the block. An expensive residential section of Cambridge, it was near the target area, yet far enough away that he wouldn't be noticed by Uncle Ray's guards. For the same reason - to avoid attracting attention - he'd decided not to stand in one place and wait but rather to appear to be taking a late-night stroll.

  The exercise helped to dispel the cold. Passing streetlights, he noticed puffs of frosty breath coming out of his mouth. With a shiver, he pulled the hood of his coat up over his head and kept his gloved hands inside his pockets.

  It was after midnight. He noticed few cars or pedestrians, though he did see occasional activity beyond glowing windows in magnificent homes. The trees were leafless, their branches scraped by the wind.

  He heard a car and, glancing behind him, saw headlights turn a corner, coming his way. In the glow of a streetlight, he saw that the car was black, an Olds-mobile. He recognized Father Stanislaw's profile behind the steering wheel and quickly got in when the car stopped beside him.

  The heater was on. Drew took off his gloves and warmed his hands.

  "The house we want is on a corner," Father Stanislaw said. "It's surrounded by walls. It belongs to a friend of his."

  "Any lights on the grounds?"

  "None at all. The house has all its lights on, though."

  "Sure. A flame for the moth. In case I found out where he was. Any guards?"

  "I didn't see any. Mind you, I didn't have much chance. I had to keep driving by. But the entrance to the driveway has a large metal gate. It's closed. Beyond the gate, I saw several cars."

  "So the guards must be waiting out of sight in case the shadows look tempting and someone comes over the wall. That's when the grounds get lit up."

  "So I suspect," Father Stanislaw said. He drove around the corner and stopped at the darkest part of the block.

  A sports car - Drew didn't recognize the model -pulled up behind them. A figure emerged, approached the Oldsmobile, and opened the door.

  Arlene got in back. "I checked the house the same as you did," she told the priest. "I didn't see any guards."

  "So what do you think? Should we risk it?" Drew asked.

  Their gazes were steady.

  "It's time." Drew turned toward a wooden case of soft-drink bottles on the back seat. But the bottles contained something stronger than soda pop.

  9

  Gasoline mixed with liquid detergent, each bottle's mouth stuffed with a tampon. Homemade napalm. The burning gasoline would cling to whatever surface it struck.

  They divided the bottles evenly, each putting eight in a knapsack. Leaving the Oldsmobile, they walked to the corner. Father Stanislaw went straight across the street and continued down the block, while Drew and Arlene turned right and proceeded down the adjacent street. When the two of them reached the next corner, they faced each other.

  "Be careful," Drew said, a wave of sadness rushing through him. What was he forcing her to do?

  "When this is over... "

  He waited, uncertain if he wanted her to continue.

  "You and I have a lot to talk about," she said. A streetlight reflected off her intensely probing eyes.

  He knew what she meant, but as his sadness deepened, he didn't know what to tell her. He hadn't given himself time to decide.

  "I never stopped missing you," she said.

  He still didn't know what to say. But he didn't resist when she kissed him. Indeed, not allowing himself to think, he returned the kiss, holding her close.

  "All right. When this is over" - he breathed painfully - "we'll talk."

  10

  Cautious, holding his knapsack, he walked along the murky street in back of the target area. He passed two darkened houses and left the sidewalk to creep between them, using hedges and bushes for cover. In a moment, his eves adjusting quickly to the greater blackness, he saw the lane that ran parallel to the street he'd just left. And beyond the lane, he saw the ten-foot-high brick wall that separated him from the back of the house.

  From this perspective, with
the wall partly shielding it, he saw only the upper levels, but as Father Stanislaw had said, lights were on inside. To protect his night vision, Drew didn't look at them. He scanned the lane -it was gravel, he saw now - and studied the sheltered spots where someone might hide. There was always the risk that Ray had posted sentries outside the walls, though Drew doubted that he had done so. For one thing, a neighbor might notice the sentries and call the police to complain about prowlers. For another, with Ray's forces now dispersed - some at the office, some at his estate on the Bay - he'd probably want to concentrate his remaining men on the inside of the property, spacing them effectively, so they could make sure that no one came over the wall.