He also suspected that Elias Darwish was a member of St. Sava, his football career merely a cover. The Patriot's search for verification produced nothing. Yet the lack of proof itself was proof enough. Even the CIA had been unable to link anyone with St. Sava or, for that matter, find any concrete evidence of its existence. Invisibility was the trademark of the ancient secret society.
The bust of Kennedy faced toward Ronald Reagan's, appropriate pieces for the presidential décor of his office. They perched on tall stands at opposite ends of the credenza. A fleur-de-lis was carved on the front of each upper panel. The stands looked identical. But when he rubbed his thumb across the fleur-de-lis on JFK's stand, the panel dropped into the base, revealing bins for secure phones and SIM cards, passports, foreign cash, and a small secure laptop and flash drives.
His mind turned again to Darwish's information. Though nothing had been found, the existence of a report continued to haunt him. Someone wanted it! Had Darwish memorized the information, fearful of recording it? Fearful of the risk of someone finding evidence that he was more than a football player? Had he planned to deliver it personally? If so, he was a fool! A dead fool stopped in time.
An unwelcome question rose from his viscera and throbbed through his blood. Could Elias Darwish have been innocent? Unthinkable! He shook off the question and returned to the matter at hand.
He listened once more to the President's call to the Secretary of Defense. It seemed innocuous. Her request for a personal favor was not noteworthy. Neither was her desire to protect Lynn Peterson, a bishop in Benedict's denomination who was headed into harm's way in the Balkans. Nor was her specific request for Major Marshall Manetti, because, as she explained in her overheard words, He's a practicing Catholic and likely to be both respectful and comfortable around a bishop. He listened carefully for strain in her voice and found none.
But why did she use the secure line to make the call?
He intended to find out. But it would have to wait. Right now he had to prepare his strategy for the afternoon meeting. With a sigh he automatically straightened his red tie and faced the public side of his divided world. This afternoon he would don his charming public persona and join the Inner Circle at the Oval Office.
12
Lynn arrived before Bubba at Café du Monde. It was essential to return to Jackson Square. The sooner, the better. They had refused to let Katrina's tantrum force them from New Orleans, and no sniper's bullet would chase them from the Quarter!
The aura of déjà vu enshrouded her. She glanced at the corner backed by the fence where the mime had stood yesterday. Chilled despite the heat, she shuddered and locked her arms together across her chest. Her eyes carefully avoided the pavement where Elie fell.
Today was like every day in the Quarter. Nothing was different. Everything was different.
Cy Bill Bergeron, a mounted policeman, rode down St. Peter. He was another Katrina hero and one of the NOPD's most respected officers. He cut a dashing figure, wearing a black uniform from head to toe, sitting tall on his dark, shiny Percheron. Strong and agile like his rider, Ebony stood seventeen hands and weighed nearly a ton. Centuries ago his breed was ridden by knights in combat, and Lynn could visualize both Cy Bill and Ebony charging forth in chain mail. They knew how to put on a show just crossing the street. She wished he'd been patrolling Jackson Square yesterday morning. If anyone could have prevented the shooting, it was Cy Bill astride Ebony. At the very least, the mime wouldn't have escaped.
She saw Bubba in the distance, walking down Decatur like yesterday. But not like yesterday at all. He walked alone, head down, shoulders sagging. She knew that each painful step took far more courage than any feat on the football field. Cy Bill turned Ebony up Decatur toward the linebacker. He dismounted, leading his horse, and walked along beside Bubba. Folks need company on painful journeys.
"Hello, Bishop Lynn."
Lynn turned to the petite server, a porcelain doll in her white apron and cap with CAFE DU MONDE in green letters. "Good morning, Yoo-Sei."
She smiled and turned her head, pointing to the barrette Lynn had brought to her from her native Seoul. The hand-painted hibiscus looked lovely fastened around her long dark hair. "This is my favorite," she said in careful English.
"I'm glad you like it. I appreciated your teaching me those tricky Korean inflections before we went." Lynn smiled at her. "A friend's help makes all the difference."
"Café au lait and beignets?"
"Please."
"Make it two," said Bubba.
"How about three, Cy Bill?" Lynn asked. "Can you join us?"
"You know I'd love to. But I have to keep moving." Ebony came to attention as he remounted, his eyes looking into their souls. "I'm glad to see you both back in the Quarter." Touching the brim of his black hat, he nodded and moved on, the horseshoes clicking sharply along the street.
Bubba folded like an accordion into the chrome chair, shrinking it to child size.
Yoo-Sei's dark eyes grew large as she recognized the Saints star linebacker. "Please, Mr. Bubba Broussard, would you sign a napkin for me?"
"My pleasure." His haggard face and downcast eyes contradicted his smile.
Holding the autographed napkin as proudly as an Oscar, she hurried off for the order.
After passable Southern niceties, Bubba came to the point. "Before we get to the favor I mentioned, I want to thank you again for inviting me for coffee last night."
"We're always happy to see you, Bubba."
"When I got home, I had the strangest feeling that someone had been there."
"Oh, Bubba! You didn't need that. Not yesterday."
"Nothing was missing, and nothing specifically seemed disturbed. But . . ." He brushed his palm across his head. "I don't know."
"It wasn't quite right? I know that feeling."
"I wondered if the Feds searched my condo while detaining me. Or if someone was there connected to Elie's . . ." He lowered his eyes and shook his head, leaving the word unsaid.
An unrushed silence followed.
She didn't break it. He would say more when he was ready.
"Now, about that favor, Bishop Lynn." He opened his hand and revealed a medal.
She remembered the chain split by the bullet and the shiny object she'd seen Bubba pick up.
"Elie never took this off. I knew he'd reach for it first thing when he became conscious. And I'd be there with it, right beside him."
Yoo-Sei brought their order. Bubba closed his hand.
Lynn moved the napkin holder from the center of the small table to give her room and thanked her, "Kamsahamnida." To simplify remembering the courtesy, she thought of it as two words—kamsa hamnida.
"Good accent, Bishop Lynn." She flashed a shy, admiring glance toward Bubba and turned away.
He opened his large palm again. The medal rested there as cherished as an infant in a cradle. For a moment they stared at it in silence, poignantly aware of Elie's presence in his absence. Two gemstones formed a pair of linked crescents like waning moons in the center of a silver circle. They slightly overlapped, one above the other. At first glance the gemstones looked sea green, but a closer view showed tones of mottled green and blue streaked with white. The unique medal drew her like a portent, triggering something in the mist of memory.
A man in opaque sunglasses caught her eye as he passed by their table. He carried a newspaper and black canvas bag to the corner table at the back. His navy T-shirt and jeans blended in with the relaxed camaraderie of the crowd. His demeanor drew her attention, not his clothes. He exuded intimidation. His brow was creased in a permanent frown, and his thin lips drew a tight line above his square jaw. Lynn's trusted yellow flag waved. Automatically she clicked a mental picture and filed it under C for caution.
13
Bubba took a sip of café au lait and set his mug down. He turned Elie's medal over and ran his finger across an engraving on the back. "I wonder what it says."
The tough linebacker's tenderne
ss pulled at Lynn's heartstrings. She peered thoughtfully at the letters. "It's his name."
"You can read that?"
"Not really. But I learned the Cyrillic alphabet for a visit to Russia, and I can figure out words." She smiled. "It's their meanings that stump me."
"You are amazing, Bishop Lynn."
She shrugged. "Not amazing. Just cursed with curiosity."
"Did you know that Elie's mama lives in Sarajevo? He told me she spent a good while in a refugee center."
"I visited a lot of those centers when I was there before. Not a pretty memory. War is only glamorous in fiction."
"He was sure his daddy ended up in a mass grave."
"Most of the women refugees had lost husbands, sons, fathers. I've been in some scary situations. But nothing like Bosnia." The sounds and sights vividly returned. "I can still hear the shelling and the roar of planes carrying bombs. Galen and I would eat lunch in the mess tent with soldiers and then watch them load into tanks and head into harm's way. And it wasn't a movie. It was real." Even now, just talking about it tensed her stomach and raced her heart.
"It's bad over there again. Aren't you afraid?"
"Yes. But there's also a sense of peace. It was the same way last time." Fear wrapped in peace—a puzzling and illogical reality.
"Elie sent his mama money regularly, but she didn't always get it. He said it's common for them to steal foreign mail." Bubba looked away. "He always hoped to bring her here." Grief enshrouded his words.
"My heart aches for her. Both her husband and her son." She thought of precious Lyndie and felt the familiar bolt of pain.
Stay in the present, Lynn.
"I've taken the long way 'round to ask the favor. It might not be possible, and I'll understand if you can't. But while you're in Sarajevo, would you try to find her and give her Elie's medal?"
"I can't do much for Mrs. Darwish, but I can at least do that."
When? Your schedule is too tight, Lynn. And how would you find her in the Balkan chaos?
Butt out, Ivy! "I promise, Bubba," she vowed. He passed the medal over with reverence. Its greenish-bluish crescents jogged her mind once more but still remained a mystery.
"Thank you." His eyes misted and he lowered them, fumbling to pull out his wallet, giving himself time to regain control. He removed five one-hundred-dollar bills. "I hope this will help her out until his affairs are settled."
"How thoughtful and generous." Typical of Bubba.
"I wrote her a note. Maybe someone can translate it." He folded the bills and put them inside.
Since Lynn avoided carrying a purse in the Quarter, she stuffed Bubba's bulging note in her skirt pocket, wrapped the medal in a paper napkin, and put it in the other pocket. A feeling of being watched swept over her. She glanced toward the stranger in opaque sunglasses. He appeared to be reading the newspaper. She tried to dismiss the feeling: more people know me than I realize, so it isn't uncommon to be recognized and observed. Besides, every Saints fan in New Orleans can identify Bubba Broussard. Her logic failed.
Alert and uneasy, she stood to leave. "When Galen and I return, I'll tell you all about Elie's mother."
"And you will return," he said, unfolding from the chrome chair. "Even this sinner will pray for that."
"You look like one of the Saints to me, Bubba." She reached up and hugged her friend goodbye. As she wove around the crowded tables, she glanced again at the man in the corner, her yellow flag still flying. The dark glasses that hid his eyes aimed at her. She moved her mental file on him from C for caution to D for danger.
Zigzagging through the tourists, Lynn headed for the corner of Canal and Carondelet to catch the St. Charles streetcar. Concerned about Bubba's money in her pocket, she walked fast but not fast enough to attract attention. New York was the place to rush, not New Orleans. A long line waited to board and pay as number 921 drew up. A new driver watched people clink exact change into the slot.
"Where's Louie?" she asked.
"He called in sick."
"I hope it isn't serious."
He winked. "Good fishing on the Atchafalaya today."
She laughed and found an empty seat midway. It was faster to ride than drive in the traffic and find a parking place in the Quarter. But today heat and humidity encapsulated the crowded streetcar like a natural sauna. Fumes from the traffic drifted through the open windows. But she enjoyed riding it—a big red flowerbox on wheels bursting with human blooms of all colors. Weary of intrigue, she lowered her yellow flag to half-mast.
Suddenly, an iron-strong hand grabbed the closing door. He squeezed his broad shoulder through and shoved till he forced it open. The stranger in sunglasses stepped aboard. Once again his opaque lenses aimed toward her.
14
The stranger claimed the aisle. Neck rigid. Jaw tight. Black canvas bag over his shoulder. People stepped aside. He advanced toward Lynn and took the seat directly behind her.
Her yellow flag turned red. She couldn't see him, but she could feel him, like rays of negative energy. The hackles rose on the back of her neck. She slumped down in the wooden seat, feigning invisibility.
You're not invisible, Lynn. Pretending to be isn't helpful.
True. She took a deep breath. Tried to calm herself. She stood to get off as they reached the next stop. He stood also. She sat back down. He moved into the aisle and gestured to a standing woman to take his seat, continuing to stand behind Lynn's seat.
She decided to ride the streetcar until at least one stop after he got off. To the end of the line and start back again if necessary. The old streetcar would reverse directions, with the rear as the front and the seat backs flipped to face forward again. At that point I'll know for sure, she thought. I'll call Cy Bill at the police station. No way will I endanger Galen. Or Bubba.
Endanger Bubba, Lynn?
I should have taken karate, she thought.
At Lee Circle, a tall woman boarded. She smiled at Lynn as she approached.
Lynn nodded. Should I know her? She had kind brown eyes and dark curly hair cut short. She wore a neat cream suit, gold earrings, and a mint scarf at her neck. Lynn tried to remember but didn't know which mental disc to pull up for a search. There were too many faces from too many places.
The woman passed Lynn's seat and stumbled. Lynn turned around to help. The woman grabbed for something to break the fall. Her hand bumped the stranger's face and knocked his sunglasses askew.
Immediately he straightened them. But Lynn saw! For an instant she'd looked again into icy gray eyes with an alarming capacity for cruelty. The mime!
Stunned, she found herself outside the scene, like watching a slow-motion movie. She watched herself bend down beside the woman. Watched herself carefully avoid looking at the mime. Watched herself pretend she didn't recognize him.
But she knew! And she feared he knew she knew!
The driver immediately stopped the streetcar. He glanced at Lynn in the rearview mirror. "Is she all right?"
"I'm OK," the woman answered. Lynn took her arm to help her up.
The mime, sunglasses secure, reached down to help also. He bumped against Lynn. "Excuse me," he said with a foreign accent. He nodded toward an empty seat. Together, they eased her into it.
The driver watched through the mirror. "Are you sure you're not hurt, ma'am?"
"I'm OK," she repeated. She looked at Lynn and managed a smile. "Just embarrassed."
As the streetcar started again, the mime moved silently to the door, his back to Lynn. She pulled her phone from the pocket of her blouse and waited for the next stop. She flipped it open as the door released. Pretending to make a call, she aimed the lens toward him, clicked and stored his right profile. She wanted to capture a frontal view of his face, but he stepped in front of the streetcar and hurriedly crossed St. Charles. Still pretending to make a call, she caught his left profile through the window.
For a moment she felt relieved that he was gone—but only for a moment. Those gray marble eyes hurl
ed through her mind like a hurricane. She pondered his accent. German. But not quite. It was hard to peg in only two words. A tap on the shoulder startled her. She jumped reflexively.
"I'm sorry, Bishop Peterson," said the woman who'd fallen. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
Lynn smiled. "I was lost in thought."
"You may not remember, but we met when you came to my church. I'm Rosa DuBois, a member of Mt. Zion Church."
"It's good to see you again. I hope you really are all right."
"Just clumsy, I guess."
"Aren't we all! That was quite a tumble."
"It surely caused a commotion. One second I was walking down the aisle, and the next second I was flat on the floor." She paused. "That man was nice to help me."
Lynn would have chosen an entirely different adjective for him.
"But you know—" She raised her eyebrows, puzzled. "It sounds silly, but I'd almost swear he tripped me."
Lynn remembered feeling him bump against her and immediately put her hand in her pocket. Relieved, she felt Bubba's money and note. She checked the other one. Nothing! Elie's medal was missing.
15
Troubled, President Helena Benedict stood erect beside her dark cherry secretary in the private quarters of the White House. Confidential information seemed to rebound into heightened conflict and chaos. Am I growing paranoid? she wondered. Or is someone playing sinister background music in a Phantom of the Opera crescendo? Someone well-informed, someone close. She scanned the list of staff, advisors, Secret Service agents, Cabinet and Inner Circle members. One of these names could be at best her enemy, at worst a traitor to the country. Contrary to her trusting nature, she decided to pay very close attention to them individually and in meetings.
The Dead Saint Page 4