The secure phone rang. He clasped it in his long, slender fingers and listened. Another success for Zeller, as expected. The ace was a stranger to failure. As he returned the phone to JFK, a frown replaced his smile. This was not a time to dance, but a time to mourn for Manetti's family and their loss of husband and father. Unfortunate but necessary. He reminded himself that he was clear of any blame. Guilt fell squarely on the shoulders of the President.
The Manetti problem was cared for, but the Peterson factor continued to nag at him despite the lack of incriminating evidence. Bishop Lynn Peterson traveled in international circles, a perfect opportunity for a presidential conduit. Was she involved?
All of these worrisome problems because of President Benedict. Vice President Parker, like former presidents, was a good friend and understood what that meant. He would be a better leader for the country. Why not target Benedict and solve all his problems?
The thought shocked him.
It scared him.
But it didn't release him.
30
At the hospital Lynn prayed with the injured who wanted to pray and listened to family members who wanted to talk. After an hour, she found herself exhausted from the emotional trauma of Marsh's death and retrieving the President's letter and not knowing what to do with it and trying to be a channel of God's love for the injured and their families and the night on the plane and jet lag. She turned down a hall that led to a quieter wing of the hospital. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She began to breathe deeply in this silent space. In a moment or two she felt someone watching her.
Across the hall through the door directly opposite her a lone teenage boy sat on a table. Both legs were missing, and his left hand clutched the edge of the table for balance. She'd learned from Dick that some of the wounded NATO soldiers fighting in the Balkans were transferred here when they needed therapy and longer care than the Zagreb MASH unit could provide. He'd obviously been deserted in the chaos of the tragedy, and he was probably one of those soldiers. She wondered if a landmine had cost him his legs.
His youth struck her. Maybe eighteen, but she guessed sixteen. Lyndie. She started to lower her eyes to give him privacy, but he looked straight at her from deep blue wells of sadness. She smiled and took a step toward his door. "Where are you from?"
He just stared at her.
"English?" she asked, hoping he spoke it. Or at least understood that nearly universal word.
"Nyet," he said.
Nyet. He said the word gently, but Russian was her favorite language for expressing an adamant No! What better sound for defiance than NYET! Landmines: NYET! She longed to comfort him, knew nothing could. What is the word for son? Think! It came to her: syn. C.. in the Cyrillic alphabet. The letters came as quickly to her mind as the sounds. "Dobryi dyen, syn," she said in her style of mixing transliteration and phonetics. "Good afternoon, son."
Hearing the simple greeting in his own tongue brought a surprised smile to his face. "Дoбрыйдeнв," he said, repeating her greeting.
She wondered if anyone in the hospital spoke his language. There must be so many words of reassurance he needed to hear as he stared at the space where his legs used to be, so many things he wanted to say. Hesitantly she entered the room and introduced herself. "My name is Lynn. Moya familiya Lynn."
He smiled and pointed to himself. "Sasha."
Grateful for the courtesies she'd learned in Russian, she told him she was very pleased to meet him. "Ochen' priyatno, Sasha." She meant it.
Again he politely repeated her greeting. "Очeнь приятно." He searched her face. Timidly he opened his right fist. A cross lay in his palm.
She noticed that it wasn't the Russian Orthodox style with double-slanted crossbars. Instead, it had a single straight crossbar and was on a round silver disc. She wondered if her presence in the hall had interrupted a prayer, probably one of desperation. She gestured toward herself. "Yepiskop." She couldn't remember whether the word for bishop had an alternative feminine ending, but it didn't matter at the moment.
"Eлйcкoл?"
She nodded, realizing that since the Russian Orthodox Church was the predominant faith in his homeland, a woman bishop probably seemed . . .
Unorthodox, Lynn?
She felt a strong urge to offer to pray for Sasha and bless him. She hesitated, then formed praying hands. "Da?"
Untroubled by her gender, he bowed his head expectantly. She placed both hands on the top of his head and offered a prayer of blessing in English. She longed to be able to bless him in Russian.
When she finished, there were tears in the boy's eyes and a sense of peace on his face. Prayers and blessings are multilingual. "Cпacнбo," he said quietly, thanking her.
Just as nyet was an expressive word for no, so spasebo was a beautiful word for thank you. She sighed, not wanting to move on, but it was time to say goodbye. "Do svidaniya, Sasha."
"До cвидaния," he repeated.
She restrained herself from giving him a hug, sensing that right now he might confuse it with pity. He needed confidence that he was still a man. She placed both palms together and bowed her head respectfully to him, Russian style, then turned away before her own tears welled up. She summoned again the pretense of a TV show so the horror of war wouldn't seep through her defenses and force her to face torn flesh and broken hearts and missing limbs and sickened souls. She knew that Sasha would be with her for the rest of her life. Landmines, she thought again, NYET!
Just as she stepped through the door, she heard something drop, and Sasha called to her with heart-rending desperation. She moved quickly back to the table. He pointed downward, and she realized he'd dropped his cross. It lay on the floor upside down, revealing the other side of the silver disc. As she bent to pick it up, her hand froze. In the center stood two crescents in a mottled greenish-bluish gemstone. They overlapped vertically like connected waning moons. Like Elie's medal! Could it be Elie's? A medal stolen in New Orleans on Thursday and found in the hands of a wounded Russian in Vienna on Sunday? With a cross welded onto the other side? Impossible.
She glanced up at Sasha. She had hesitated too long. He could tell she found something familiar about it. He looked frightened. He put his index finger to his lips and locked his eyes on hers as though concentrating all his power of being, merging their souls for a moment, willing her to silence. She recognized this mysterious magnetic force of intercommunion because she had initiated it herself in a few rare and desperate situations. She nodded and mimicked his finger-to-lips gesture, a promise of silence that they shared this secret together, and she would keep it.
She picked up his cross and felt its cold metal against her fingers like an echo of Elie's medal. She placed it gently in his palm and for a moment held her hand over his. A secret links us, she thought, but she didn't know how to say it. At least she knew how to say farewell. "Proshchat'sya, Sasha." She smiled warmly, her mind framing the Cyrillic word, Прoщaитe
Laden with questions, Lynn plodded to the hospital entry. Was Elie's medal a symbol of some kind? Did Sasha realize she recognized it? Is that what frightened him? Did it link Sasha and Elie? She wanted to go back and ask him, but she couldn't cross the language barrier. And she couldn't seek a translator because of the fear in his eyes when he thought she recognized the symbol. She would never know. She would have to settle for turning the page.
Sun shone through the hospital windows, but darkness engulfed her. She needed time alone to center herself. But there was none. Instead of a calm center from which she could reflect God's love to others, a tornado hurled within her. Two gunshots. A heart wound and a head wound. On opposite sides of the sea. Both in her presence. Her mind flashed images like blinking neon lights. Elie's laugh then blood on his T-shirt. The major's wink then his face on a gurney. And a Russian boy without legs.
Russian! That's what triggered a flash of memory when she first saw Elie's medal! The overlapping crescents were made of Амaзoнέт, or
amazonite, the most beautiful gemstone in her Russian collection. Bluer than malachite. Greener than turquoise. Mined on the Siberian border in the Ural Mountains. A medal and a cross with Russian stones designed in the same symbol. She felt sure the unique symbol connected Elie and Sasha. But how?
And now she, too, was connected with Sasha through a secret. Eerie chills snaked up her spine.
31
Zeller ambled along through the streets of Vienna toward Dr. Karl Lueger Platz, reflecting on the morning. He commended himself for outsmarting airport security. Games have rules, but rules are games. People with nothing to hide follow them; the rest maneuver around them. He had timed his arrival at Flughafen Wien to coincide with the early rush of departing flights. He checked his bag containing his rifle and typical travel clothes. Got through security with a fake boarding pass. Entered a restroom stall. Took off his inconspicuous gray suit worn over a baggage handlers' uniform, turned off the water flow to the toilet and stashed his suit in a plastic bag in the tank. Donned fake ID tags and put an out-of-order sign on the stall door. Went to the baggage loading area, blended in with the other handlers and retrieved his suitcase. Returned to the restroom stall, changed back into his suit, made his way to the chosen site, and waited for Manetti's plane to land with plenty of time to settle himself and focus totally on his task. So easy.
After the single shot, he took apart his rifle, put it back in the suitcase, effortlessly and efficiently escaped from his firing position. This time he blended in among the dazed, panic-stricken crowd, one more person with a bag. He made himself invisible with his inconspicuous gray suit, a slouch, and a vacant stare. He left through the nearest exit before an official procedure could be implemented. Once again, so easy.
But he must not grow overconfident. He reviewed his escape. Had he covered his tracks? Absolutely. He never left evidence unless intentionally planted. Yet in a dangerous profession many things can go wrong. The Manetti success could still go wrong. He fought a strong impulse to look over his shoulder. No. Suspicious looks would result in looking suspicious.
It began to mist as he entered Dr. Karl Lueger Platz. He ignored the dampness. This morning he'd been robbed of his customary exhilaration after a perfect shot. He deserved a high after a success, had earned it. He quelled his rising anger. Anger affected thought processes. It was dangerous. Like overconfidence. Mentally he reran the landing scene in slow motion:
My plan is perfect. I am well positioned. The plane lands. I lift my rifle. I telescope each deplaning figure. I wait for the target. A familiar face comes into focus. She lifts her suitcase to carry it down the ramp. The tall man behind her reaches out to take it. She shakes her head. I keep her in my scope. I remember! The woman with Hercules in New Orleans! The one I took the medal from on the streetcar! Seeing her almost unsteadies me. Steady! Steady!
He reran the scene again and reached the same disturbing conclusion. Unquestionably she was the woman from New Orleans. He prided himself on never forgetting a face—or the name attached to it. His perfect memory matched his perfect aim. An essential skill for both assassins and politicians. Honor was the major difference between the two professions. Politicians did not keep their promises, whereas his word was gold.
The woman's presence stole away his post-hit high, a theft inviting consequences. She had seen his face close up on the streetcar, his eyes bare of sunglasses for an instant. Eyes are distinctly individual and memorable. She could recognize him if she saw him again—and she was on his turf in Vienna. He considered what he knew about her from his observation at the café. She was naïve, a window without curtains. So naïve that she put something valuable in her skirt pocket, had no suspicion that the woman on the streetcar was tripped and did not even notice when her pocket was picked. Apprehension lessened, and he felt relieved. He could reject her as a target, at least for now. He declined contracts on women. In the beginning he had accepted one, his first and his last. Her face in Freund's telescopic lens kept blurring into his mother's face. Never again! No. His code of honor was a three-point star: He would not shoot anyone in the back—unless absolutely necessary. He would not terminate a woman—unless the contract paid enough to retire. Nor would he terminate another ace—not without a critical reason. He took pride in his elite profession. If Manetti had been a shooter, he would still be alive.
He stood in the mist, staring up at Lueger's statue. The small woman from New Orleans and the tall man behind her remained in the shadows of his mind. But he would not let them return to the forefront. No. Not unless they crossed his path again.
32
When the chaos calmed at the hospital, Dick asked Lynn if they still had time for a late lunch. She wanted to go over her speech again before the banquet, but she knew he needed to talk. She could tell by the strength he'd shown at the hospital that he was a rock for the troops. But even the strong need times when they can lean on a rock instead of be one. "Of course we do," she said. "You're an exceptional chaplain, and we've been looking forward to lunch together."
He took them to a small, quiet place. Lynn tried but couldn't eat. Elie's shooting, Marsh's gaping head, Sasha's missing legs, the bombing victims. All the violence whirled through her mind. And then there was the discovery of another medal like Elie's. She toyed with her soup and forced herself to focus on Dick. He began to talk about hardships in the Balkans. The troops live with danger and demoralization. The chaplains have a difficult job. The MASH staff an impossible one. Casualties mount daily. Chaos is the norm. Galen joined her in being a rock for Dick today. Galen genuinely cared for people. He loved to talk about history, but he also knew when to listen. Gratitude for him welled up within her.
A light mist fell as they returned to the car. Dick seemed embarrassed as he opened the door for her and climbed into the driver's seat. "I'm sorry to let all this spill out." With a sigh he added softly, "I guess I needed a pastor."
She reached forward and patted his shoulder lightly. "That's why I'm here, Dick. You have to be strong for the troops. You don't have to be strong for us."
But the rock returned. Their conversation was light as he drove them to the hotel. They talked about the picturesque city that rested against the skyline like an old painting. Window boxes of red geraniums dotted the ancient buildings, drops of mist sparkling on their blooms. Beautiful Vienna!
When they came to the inner city ring, Dick pointed out Dr. Karl Lueger Platz and his statue.
"I read that Vienna has more statues of Lueger than Mozart," said Lynn.
"He was Hitler's mentor in demagogy," said Galen. "Unfortunately, he wasn't the first or the last to use prejudice for political sway."
Lynn smiled to herself. How Galen loved history! And how he loved to share his knowledge of it! That was one of the things she loved about him. Another was being able to draw on his strength. They had different strong points and that was good. They could count on each other.
She noticed a lone man in the mist, an intimidating figure even at a distance. He was looking up at Lueger's statue, his back to her. Broad-shouldered in his trench coat, he stood as rigid as a mime. As they drove past, he turned away from the statue and stepped double-time through the platz. He had a frown and thin lips above a square jaw. His opaque sunglasses drew her attention, markedly out of place in the gray mist. He blurred into her image of Sunglasses in New Orleans. It couldn't be!
She pulled her phone from Big-Black and glanced quickly at the profile pictures she'd taken on the streetcar. Could it be?
Galen looked back at her. "Are you checking phone service?"
"We have it, Love," she said, telling a truth without answering his question.
You're getting so slick, Lynn.
Not a compliment. She put the cell away without mentioning the resemblance of the man in the mist to the man on the streetcar. No point in shelling that shrimp again. But her fingers automatically moved to her waist wallet, tic recurring. She felt for the letter to "Marsh with NATO." Still there.
"Good," said Lynn. "Thanks for everything today."
Galen added his appreciation, and they rolled their luggage into a hotel lobby alive with the rush of bellmen and the laughing hubbub of friendly delegates. At the moment, however, being tired trumped being social, and they hurried toward the rapidly filling elevator. Lynn stepped back from the door to wait for the next one, but felt Galen's hand in the middle of her back pushing her forward. The doors closed. People pressed close while the small, ancient elevator groaned its ascent.
Perhaps because of exhaustion. Or grief. Or man-in-themist anxiety. Or reprisal for being prodded onto an elevator. Whatever the reason, Lynn blatantly peered at everyone behind her. Over her left shoulder. Over her right shoulder. Then she stage-whispered to Galen, "Which one is the undercover agent?"
An immediate hush fell—except for Galen's exasperated sigh.
Perfect! They assumed the tall man in the front was upset because she'd revealed a clandestine presence. But her delight was short-lived. Disappointed in herself, she grew up once more. Why do I do things like that? As long as you both shall live must be a burdensome vow for Galen at times.
The Dead Saint Page 9