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The Dead Saint

Page 6

by Marilyn Brown Oden


  He envied her flawless diction, a gift from simply growing up with her father, old Senator Heffron whose voice he remembered well. He contrasted that gift with his own long, grueling struggle to perfect his diction, finally erasing every trace of an accent. She was one of the privileged class born into life with pretty packaging. He, on the other hand, had been forced to claw through the refuse of their crumpled wrappings. Unlike the D. C. politicos who thwarted justice, he understood the little people because he could identify with them. Somehow the President seemed able to do that also—another surprise. He tended to underestimate her. Dangerous!

  A story about President Truman had taught him the power of presidential friendship. When Truman faced the momentous historical dilemma of partitioning Palestine to grant a Jewish nation, he worried about the long-term effect on the U.S. of continuing to support Zionist policies. He refused to be influenced by pressure from Zionists on one side and oil interests on the Arab side. He also declined—and found offensive—a Zionist offer of cash. But where pressure and money failed, friendship succeeded. His friend Eddie Jacobson, a non-Zionist Jew, went to see him and shared his concerns about the plight of the Jews—and the Jewish state of Israel was born at midnight on Friday, May 14, 1948. Truman wrote later that Jacobson's contribution was of "decisive importance."

  Never forgetting that story, John Adams began his own efforts as a young man assigned to a terrorist task force while Cheney was Secretary of Defense in the first Bush administration. From that time forward his cool logic had served him well. He'd worked in the CIA and NSA, befriended presidents as his wealth grew, first through his covert arms business and later, when he could afford it, while building his infrastructure business. His presidential friendships had resulted in influence and access, and their concomitant power—until Benedict. His efforts to befriend her were courteously received but disconcertingly unrewarded. But, he muttered, I'll continue to court her friendship. Deceitful but necessary.

  He ate his four-course dinner in a leisurely manner as his plane droned through the sky. Particular about the finer things in life, he was served on white linens with china, crystal and sterling—including real knives. In denial of his past, or perhaps because of it, he expected gourmet meals with artistic presentations and fine wine even in the air. He appreciated his private jet more than any other possession. How humiliating it would be to fly commercial, to march through security chutes like suspected convicts guilty until proven innocent, forced to submit to pat-downs and the legalized nudity produced by full body scanners. He shook his head at the foolishness. For the truth was that he or anyone in his cadre of elites—or any serious terrorist—could figure out ways to get on board with what they needed despite the restrictions. He'd been at a State dinner once when uninvited publicity seekers had managed to get themselves inside the White House—presented, seated, and hand-to-hand with the President. But, he thought, the illusion of security gives lots of people jobs and helps the economy.

  He flew frequently and appreciated the uninterrupted block of time on overnight flights. He looked at his watch and set it forward to Frankfurt's time zone. He would arrive in good time for his late morning meeting tomorrow. As he often did while flying east or west, he pondered how human beings had peacefully come to agreement on time zones around the globe. Perhaps one day righteous justice could be as easily mandated.

  He glanced at his briefcase, tonight's work ready for him thanks to Lone Star. He was exactly the kind of Secret Service agent the Patriot had sought. Originally trained by the CIA, his superiors' orders took precedence over his conscience, and he accepted the fact that he held only one piece in the puzzle, and they had the whole picture. He trusted them to judge what was best for the country, bowing to an ingrained mantra: One-two. Left-right. Do-or-die. Don't reason why.

  Lone Star was a tech prodigy and had been honored to be tapped for the deep-cover project called Genesis, so deep that it appeared not to exist. He was willing to be available as needed and keep his regular Secret Service schedule to avoid questions. He understood that a Genesis operative was not allowed to know the name of anyone else in the project nor speak of his assignments nor acknowledge—under any circumstances—the existence of Genesis. The code of silence was as strong as the Cosa Nostra's omertà. Lone Star believed in the project's noble purpose: to provide an additional layer of invisible protection for the President. He understood that this called for access to all of her communications, an essential prerequisite to keeping her out of harm's way. Proud to serve his country and his life already committed to taking a bullet for the President if necessary, he secured all the technological access Genesis required. The Patriot smiled, happy to put Lone Star's blind loyalty to use.

  In truth, Genesis consisted of a mighty force of one: Lone Star. It wasn't to protect the President but to keep the Patriot in control. The ruse provided insight about presidential interests, opinions and connections, and advance information about potential arms needs. Lone Star was stupid to fall for it. Patriotism was to be commended; blind patriotism could serve the enemy.

  He finished his all-American dessert of apple pie with ice cream and nodded for a second cup of coffee. He took a sip, opened his briefcase, and pulled out the files on Manetti and Peterson. As requested, Lone Star had obtained the Homeland Security and FBI information on Manetti and researched everything available, public and otherwise, on Peterson. Unethical but necessary. The extent of restricted information on her surprised him. He wondered if her visits to Moscow, Beijing, and Gaza had triggered it. Lone Star's reports revealed no personal connection between President Benedict and Lynn Peterson, easing his mind. But they indicted Major Marshall Mario Manetti.

  The major was a longtime friend of the President. During her conversation with the Secretary of Defense, she had not misstated about his being a good Catholic, but she had illogically omitted their friendship. The Patriot frowned and entwined his long slender fingers like a man in prayer, contemplating his decision. Life was sacred. He did not take termination lightly, but communication channels beyond his access were unacceptable. His need for control was not an obsession but essential. Blocks impeded his Holy Vision of justice and therefore must be quashed. Quashed. The harmless-sounding word brought a smile.

  He switched to Irish coffee and continued to ponder the matter. The President had used her secure line to call the Secretary of Defense. Why? She gave Manetti's Catholicism as the reason for selecting him, not their friendship. Why? She had avoided a direct call to Manetti. Again, why? Cool logic prevailed as he considered every possible angle. The only plausible reason was an attempt to create a clandestine means of contact. He may have underestimated Benedict, but she had also underestimated him. He'd discovered her attempt.

  The President, not he, bore responsibility for the necessity of Manetti's termination. As with Darwish, he had no choice. Zero tolerance. Regrettable but necessary. He lifted his Irish coffee, breathed deeply of the aroma and took a sip, the whipped cream rich on his tongue.

  20

  At 10:55 Friday morning Zechariah Zeller closed his phone and hurried through Flughafen Frankfurt to meet the Patriot—whose sobriquet was dubious but not his power. True to form he'd said only the name of the place and had disconnected. The Patriot's pattern was consistent: always meeting at the Frankfurt airport, calling five minutes before the designated time to set the exact place, changing disguises like a chameleon, arriving first and sitting at a corner table with his back to the wall.

  Zeller spotted him, the whipped cream already melting in his coffee glass. Today his hair was black with gray streaks, his eyes blue, and a salt-and-pepper goatee hid the cleft in his chin. Disguises altered the Patriot's appearance but not his intensity, not his inner makeup. No.

  "Sit."

  Zeller did so.

  "You are free this week?"

  He knew this was not a question but the preface to a directive. Another contract so soon surprised him, but he nodded, stifling a jet-lag yawn f
rom his New Orleans flight to this stopover. He handed the Patriot a tie box wrapped in birthday paper. "As I recall, you like neckwear." Inside was Elias Darwish's medal. He knew better than to ask why he was directed to retrieve it. He also knew better than to show up without it.

  "Thank you." Long, slender fingers lifted the glass of Einspänner in tribute. "You did well."

  Silently Zeller disagreed. His perfect plan scrolled through his mind: Shoot target. Take advantage of crowd panic. Toss mime costume in litterbin. Retain scalp liner to avoid DNA. Save strands of wig to frame next victim. Rush forward. Pretend concern. Retrieve medal. Leave scene. But the perfect plan had failed. He'd not foreseen the presence of a Hercules who would kneel beside the target, notice that the bullet had broken his neck chain, see the medal on the street, and pick it up. No!

  Zeller had no difficulty finding out the identity of Hercules—Bubba Broussard—and getting his address. It was easy to follow him to the café yesterday morning, watch him give the woman the medal, and pick it from her pocket on the streetcar. So easy. Easy but beneath him. He was a world-class marksman, not a petty thief. No. Now he hid his resentment behind opaque sunglasses.

  The Patriot set his glass back on the table and handed across the International Herald Tribune folded to an article about the murder of the New Orleans Saints star kicker.

  Zeller scanned it, feeling the thick cash envelope between the pages. Prompt and generous payment as always. He liked to read stories about his work and how the authorities "solved" the crime with the false clues he left behind to mislead them. The article said that Darwish's murderer had been found and had himself become a victim. Proof consisted of strands of the red wig discovered in his hair, matching fingerprints, and, most important, the gun that ballistics reports confirmed had killed Darwish. Investigation closed. Crime committed. Crime solved. He enjoyed the challenge of solving the first crime with the second, but his disciplined facial muscles concealed his inner satisfaction.

  "The timely . . . silence," the Patriot raised an eyebrow with his euphemistic reference to Darwish's termination, "is a lesson to others. Lamentable but necessary," he added softly.

  Zeller had no clue to the Patriot's identity. Darwish had tried to discover it. And been "silenced." He did not intend to make the same mistake.

  "I have learned something interesting about a major," the Patriot said like a gossiping cleric, as unsuspicious to onlookers as a tie box wrapped in birthday paper. Only the intensity in his eyes and the raised right eyebrow revealed the comment's significance.

  Zeller listened intently, knowing that the Patriot was introducing the target for his new assignment. He sipped his Mokka gespritzt, waiting without impatience to hear the name.

  "You may know Manetti, chief aide to the NATO commander in Naples." The Patriot paused, then issued the death warrant in words and in a tone that sounded like a simple party invitation. "He deserves the biggest surprise of his life." Again, the master of disguise raised his eyebrow. Zeller gave a slight nod, and the Patriot stood abruptly and left. He would be told nothing else. No. Their ongoing arrangement had been agreed upon during their first meeting three years ago: limited information about who and no strings about how—and a generous cash payment made in person at Flughafen Frankfurt upon successful completion.

  As always Zeller would access everything known about the target. This background work was essential in order to keep himself safe and to retain his perfect record. Looking forward to the challenge, he slowly finished his Mokka gespritzt and headed toward the gate for his connecting flight back home. With two hours to wait he stopped for a small Mokka, no brandy this time, and carried it to the computer station nearby.

  His phone rang. No name. None needed. The familiar voice said, "Thank you for the birthday present. I omitted one detail. You are to leave a conspicuous calling card at the site where you conduct your business: St. Sava claims responsibility." That ended the call.

  He could not sort out the Patriot's truths from his lies. But he knew for sure that he was not careless enough to omit details. St. Sava was a new ingredient. Interesting.

  He took a sip of his Mokka and Googled NATO base Naples. Then clicked Staff. Found Manetti. Major Marshall Manetti. Googled his name. Marshall Mario Manetti: Graduate of St. Thomas Catholic High School in Boston, and the Naval Academy with honors; aide-de-camp to General Theodore Thornburg with NATO, stationed in Naples. Zeller had sufficient information to begin forming his plan. He checked his watch. Just enough time to take the first step before his flight. He found the number for Manetti's office and used the U.S. cell phone he'd taken to New Orleans. He'd listed it in the name of American Liberty Bank Corporation—impressive, familiar sounding, and nonexistent. When the secretary answered, he asked to speak to Major Manetti, counting on his slight Austrian-German accent to sound scholarly.

  "He is not available," she answered, strictly business as expected.

  "I am Dr. Stephen Schwartzenburg with the alumni association of St. Thomas Catholic High School in Boston. We are honoring the major for his fine service to our country. I want to give him the good news."

  Her tone warmed. "I'll relay the message."

  "It is important that I speak to him personally. How can I reach him?"

  "I'm sorry, but I'm not at liberty to discuss his schedule."

  "Oh," Zeller's voice reeked with disappointment. "I don't know what to do. I am in charge of planning, and we need to set a date. It will be a memorable event."

  Less businesslike now, she said, "I could reach him and ask him to call you, Dr. Schwartzenburg."

  "Thank you. My number is . . ." he started to offer, knowing it had already been recorded.

  "I have it, sir." He heard the smile in her voice as she added, "Major Manetti is a fine man. He well deserves the honor."

  Zeller hung up and waited with a smile on his own face. So easy.

  As he stood in the boarding line for his flight home, his cell phone rang. Ja! He ignored it until after the voicemail, then listened to the caller's brief message.

  "Dr. Schwartzenburg, this is Marsh Manetti. Thank you for calling. St. Thomas High! Those were the days! I'm taking a brief trip and will be unreachable during flight. I'll try to contact you again later."

  Zeller noted the phone number retained by his cell. During flight. To where? Tomorrow morning at home he and his computer, fondly called Mutter and loaded with Chinese software stolen from the CIA, would tap into passenger lists on departing flights from Naples and ultimately get Manetti's itinerary. Google had given him a good beginning, but Mutter had the capacity to obtain enough information about Manetti to predict how often he brushed his teeth and the kind of toothpaste he used. So easy.

  21

  On Friday evening Lynn set the table for a special shrimp dinner, their tradition on Cross-the-Pond Eve. She needed ample time to discuss with Galen her misadventure on the streetcar yesterday, and ample time was hard to find. Last night he'd come home late from hosting a visiting lecturer at Tulane. This morning she'd hurried off for an early breakfast meeting and spent the day in Type-A mode to finish up the loose ends for her absence. Preparing dinner together distracted them, and her story about the mime and medal required his full attention. Now, as she lit the candles, delayed tension boiled within her like Mount St. Helens ready to spew.

  Galen seated her and prayed their thanks for food and blessings.

  Her story tumbled forth before they finished the bisque. "So," she concluded, "Elie's murder isn't solved. The mime is alive."

  "Chief Armstrong probably has information that Francine doesn't. We can trust him."

  "You don't believe me!"

  "The man on the streetcar scared you. That's understandable. Think what you've been through."

  "But his eyes! Cruel eyes! Identical to the mime's. Same color. Size. Shape."

  "Fear heightens imagination, Lynn."

  "If I wanted to be analyzed, I'd go to a therapist!"

  Cool the Mount St
. Helens, Lynn! It isn't helpful.

  This time Ivy was right. She took a deep breath and a new tack. "How do you explain the missing medal?"

  Galen followed his exasperated sigh with an exasperating patient-father tone. "It could have fallen out of your pocket."

  She felt discounted and deserted.

  "I don't like to see you so frightened." He reached his hand across the table and covered hers, then smiled. "You're the brave one. Remember?"

  "Don't patronize me!"

  His smile vanished. A chilly silence hung in the air. He broke it first. "Would you like to call the police and report that Elie's medal is missing?"

  "Stolen, Galen." She took another deep breath. "Reporting it might get Bubba in trouble. The police might say he removed evidence."

  The mime is probably far from New Orleans by now anyway, Lynn.

  Right again, Ivy. The acknowledgement brought a painful sense of hopelessness.

  "There's no point in continuing to worry yourself. The medal's gone. The murder's solved."

  "But it isn't solved!"

  "Lynn, it's time to turn the page," he said firmly.

  Mount St. Helens erupted. So much for a candlelight dinner! She tossed her napkin on the table. "I'm going to pack." She stomped up the stairs, perturbed that carpeting stole the sound effects.

  Anger's energy helped wrestle her black L.L. Bean roll-aboard from the closet under the attic stairs. She was tempted to curl up and sulk in the secluded space it left. But there wasn't time. There was never time for a proper pout!

  She jerked the hangers from her travel clothes: three mix-and-match skirts and jackets. Different weights and wrinkle-free. A versatile black dress, five space-saving blouses, a pair of slacks, quick-drying lingerie, inexpensive jewelry including Mardi Gras beads that could pass for pearls in the dark, a purse, and two pairs of black shoes—flats and heels. Done. Record time. Anger has its benefits.

 

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