"Are you cold?" asked Galen.
"No. But I think it's time to get on back," she said as she power-paced away. This is ridiculous, she told herself. Be logical.
Logic has its limits, Lynn.
37
Zeller stood at his apartment window and took a sip of coffee. In the distance a man whose height made him notable stared up at the Stephensturm. He stood at least a third of a meter taller than the woman beside him. An image tugged at Zeller's mind. Deciding to get a close-up view, he smashed his cigarette stub in the ashtray and removed the false panel in the wall. He opened his rifle case, took out the scope, and returned to the window. The woman from New Orleans! Again! And the tall man who had followed her off Manetti's plane. Her husband, he assumed. He remembered noticing her wedding ring on the streetcar in New Orleans. She did not seem the type to go gallivanting around the world with someone besides her husband.
He watched the couple for a few moments before they turned and left at a quick pace. Both their pace and lack of a camera distinguished them from the ambling tourists. He stored the man's face in his mental file beside hers. Never to be forgotten.
After pouring another cup of coffee, he sat down at the table to read Vienna's Österreich Journal. Most people read newspapers for pleasure. He read them for research. Broad information and small details ensured a contract completed with his success and survival. As he flipped to the second page, the woman gazed at him. Stunned, he read the caption: Bishop Lynn Peterson opens International Conference of Bishops with keynote address. He stared at her picture, a backdrop for his startling thought: I picked the pocket of a bishop!
A woman bishop? Perhaps only men are bona fide, he reasoned, cautious about getting on the wrong side of any god that might exist. It was not superstition. No. But he needed all the luck he could get.
He also needed every piece of background information Mutter could give him. He patted his computer. Mutter and Freund. What other friends did he need!
He began a thorough search. Frau Peterson was indeed a bishop, one with many credits. Yet he could not get his mind around her title. He assumed that a bishop's profession was made up of extreme fundamentalists. Ergo easy targets for manipulators. Ergo unwitting allies of the corrupt. Ergo a dangerous group. Simply convince them that you speak for their god and you can get them to silence their doubts or even support your aim: Spread hate. Steal land. Take lives en masse. It seemed to him that whatever their professed religion, people could excuse any act if they based it on the belief that it is for their god. Not so with his elite profession. Aces didn't worship gods; they were gods, holding the power to bring death or permit life at their will. His thoughts trailed again to Frau Peterson and her kind face on the streetcar. He had not seen the traits of a demagogue in her. No. Besides, he didn't like bishops. She would remain Frau Peterson to him.
Her husband was Galen Lincoln Peterson. Mutter found him: Ph.D. in history, professor at Tulane University in New Orleans. His record, like hers, included many outstanding credits. He read carefully through all the details. Thank you, Mutter. Now he knew everything he needed to about this tall man who had appeared twice in his life and might be his enemy.
The international conference explained Frau Peterson's presence in Vienna. But what about Herr Peterson? Was he simply her traveling companion, or did he have his own agenda? Could he have been on Manetti's plane because of a connection with him? Did they work together on something that ran counter to the Patriot's interests? If so, one of these days the Patriot would raise one eyebrow and speak Peterson's name to Zeller with a gossiping tone, contracting the biggest surprise of his life. Like Darwish and Manetti. But he would not share these suspicions of a Manetti-Peterson partnership with the Patriot. No. He took a sip of coffee. My aim is for hire, not my mind.
Galen Peterson's presence near his home agitated him. Was he observing the apartment instead of admiring the Stephensturm? Did he see me watching out the window? Is that why they left abruptly? Is he after me? If Peterson knows where I live, maybe I need to change locations. No! You terminate insects! You don't let them drive you away!
He warned himself not to become paranoid and shoved his dangerous anger back into his mental cooler. Perhaps everything related to Galen Lincoln Peterson was happenstance. Yet caution required him not to risk discovery. Freund and I will not act yet.
Time will tell, Mutter. Time will tell.
38
After the bishops' meeting and luncheon Lynn, agitated, rushed into the hotel room.
"What's the matter?" asked Galen.
"We spent the morning listening to reports from all around the world. Most of them troubling. Something is not right, but I can't put my finger on it." She glanced at her watch and abruptly changed the subject, along with her blouse. "We have to hurry. President Nausner's aide wants two bishops and spouses from each continent to be first in the greeting line at the reception."
"I take it you were selected for North America?"
"And Booker, of course. Government cars will take us to Schönbrunn Palace ahead of the buses. We're to meet in the lobby in ten minutes." She attached her clerical collar to her shirt of traditional episcopal purple and glanced at Galen. He wore his gray suit, a red tie, and silver cuff links. She smiled at him. "You look sharp."
"Thought I'd move upscale from running togs."
"We'll need our passports and the invitation. The Austrian government ran checks on everyone, and we received security passes this morning."
He grinned. "I hope none of the bishops failed."
"It's the spouses they'd better worry about, Love."
He smoothed his shirt and checked the points of his handkerchief. "I'm looking forward to President Nausner's reception this afternoon—one of the perks of being married to my esteemed wife."
"I'm glad Will invited us to dinner tonight. It'll be fun to see them again."
"Ambassador Whitcomb," he said, trying out Will's new title. "It's comforting to know someone with integrity has that position."
"Do you think it will change him? Power can do disappointing things to people."
"Like bishops?"
"For some of us, all the time." She added pensively, "For all of us, some of the time."
He put his arms around her. "What saves you from power's seductive force is that you don't have a need for external power."
He'd never said that to her before. The compliment touched her. She reached up and ran her palms down his beloved face. Gratitude for the gift of their marriage welled up like a river overflowing its banks. Tears came to her eyes. The world always felt safer and gentler with Galen's arms around her. She savored the moment. And like all moments, it passed and another one rolled in to take its place.
They went to the lobby via the stairs and joined the Phillipses while waiting for the car. "Booker, what did you think about the bishops' reports?" Lynn asked, skipping small talk.
"A world conference is complex because of different languages and cultures."
"I know," she agreed. "Generally I don't pay much attention to isolated incidents. But hearing all of those reports together puts our global situation in a different perspective."
Booker looked thoughtful for a moment. "I see what you mean. They have a cumulative impact."
Sylvia joined in. "Conferences like this help people feel the pulse of the Earth."
Galen nodded. "And an opportunity to direct history, at least in a small way."
"As I listened, I wondered if we are spinning subtly toward global chaos." Lynn heard Vice President Parker's words in the limo echo in her mind: Heightened chaos and conflict. Breaches of trust at high levels. Her hand automatically touched her waist wallet, the tic returning with her anxiety. The boomerang envelope for Marsh with NATO was safe. For now. She must let President Benedict know she'd retrieved it. But how?
39
The Patriot focused on the six TV channels on the large screens on his office wall. At any moment he expected breaking n
ews about the bomb he'd had planted in Schönbrunn Palace. He envisioned the rush of reporters in a glutted field, competing for the most sensational story. As always, some would run slipshod over ethics. Some would play the blame game. Some would use a religious spin, pitting faith against faith. He could count on them to spread fear and chaos like little tin soldiers, their strings pulled by the master puppeteer. I'm always the puppeteer, he thought smugly, never the puppet.
He checked his watch, disappointed, and pushed the TV remote to clear the wall screens. He could not be late to an advisory meeting on the economy at the White House. He had valuable experience and strong opinions in that area and wanted to use them to benefit his beloved country. Perhaps the bomb news would break at the session, and he could observe President Benedict's reaction.
After Thursday's fiasco at the Inner Circle, John Adams brought his full charm to the table. He had to admire the President's uncanny capacity to listen carefully, attentive to word choice and its revelations about the speaker. Always cautious about his language, he was exceptionally so in her presence. She seemed to hear all the way down to the soul. He couldn't afford that! Neither could he afford a repetition of dropping his mask, so he was doubly cautious to keep his face and eyes guarded.
He faked an interested smile when others shared their ideas, nodding appropriately while half-listening. His mind wandered to the Internet craze of first-gentleman jokes. They went from unfunny to unkind. As much as he disliked the President, he considered publicly trashing anyone in the presidential family to be disrespectful to the office and the country. In truth, Miles Benedict deserved better. John Adams had to give him that.
At any moment he expected the dramatic delivery of a message to President Benedict about a bomb in Schönbrunn Palace. She would unfold it. Read it. Share it aloud. Her words would jolt the group. He would feign shock and consternation. Spurious but necessary.
40
Schönbrunn Palace glowed in the sun. The magnificent 1400-room structure evoked simultaneous comments about its size from Galen and Booker and its beauty from Lynn and Sylvia. As Lynn expected and dreaded, security agents stood in place. All comers guilty until proven innocent. It seemed a pointless inconvenience to Lynn—the good folk were harmless and the bad ones stayed a step ahead of detection systems. She approached nervously, President Benedict's letter to Manetti screaming its presence.
Unexpectedly, an agent escorted them past the metal detectors and bag-search tables, sparing them the demeaning process of being wanded like criminals. The agents dealt with people instead of possessions. They efficiently matched the name on invitation, passport, and security pass while glancing up pleasantly to check the likeness of photo to face. The agent whom Lynn drew had no problem identifying her with her horrible passport picture. Disappointing.
An official introduced himself as Franz Schober and led the twelve selected representatives and spouses into the Great Gallery, a stunning room. He lined them up alphabetically by continent and asked them to take that formation to greet the President. Lynn and Galen were placed between Europe and South America, just ahead of the Phillipses. For Lynn, protocol fell into the air with a Shakespearean ring of much ado about nothing, but as a guest in another country, she always honored the rules.
A string quartet played Mozart in the background as bishops and spouses arrived from the buses and began filling the room. Gold-trimmed white walls and sconces had heard centuries of secrets and kept them all. White floor-length cloths covered round tables with large colorful bouquets in the center. Plates of cut fruit and crystal glasses of sparkling white grape juice surrounded the flowers. Paper napkins monogrammed in gold were swirled in small clusters around the edge of the tables. An attendant stood at each one, dressed in the traditional black and white of waiters. Lynn admired the beautiful Gregorio Guglielmi frescoes painted on the ceiling in homage to Maria Theresa. She pointed them out to Galen as they waited for President Nausner's arrival.
Franz Schober returned to the Great Gallery through the door the President would enter. He gained control of the room in easy fashion. With courteous authority, he cleared the designated place near the door for the continental representatives and efficiently managed to get all the others to form a large circle along the walls. No small feat, as getting a group of bishops and spouses obediently organized was, in the accurate words of the cliché, like herding cats. Lynn glanced fondly around the room. Bishops in their purple shirts. Spouses standing beside them. She cared deeply for most of them. Disliked only one—JeffJames, who had, typically, jockeyed his way to be first in line after the continental representatives.
The President of Austria would be entering at any minute. The absence of Suits with earphones struck Lynn. The bishops were a safe group. But what if someone came pretending to be a bishop? All of us know some of the bishops, she thought, but no one knows all of them. She scanned the room again and leaned toward Galen. "Where is security?" she whispered.
"You can't 'bish' the Austrian Secret Service, Lynn." He grinned and winked.
The mime appeared on her mental screen, out of place in this elegant room.
The door opened, and President Nausner entered the Great Gallery. Voices hushed and eyes turned. He wore a smile and a tailored charcoal suit with a burgundy tie. Mrs. Nausner followed him. Elegant in a lavender tea dress of silk, she reminded Lynn of a beautiful iris in bloom. Lynn noticed that the attendant at the nearest table came subtly to attention, poised for action. She looked at him, really seeing him. He filled out the common uniform of black and white with an uncommon physique, more like a weight-lifter than a waiter. She guessed his neck at size seventeen. Watchful eyes belied his passive face. She glanced at the table attendants around the room—not all Size-Seventeens but all watchful. That answered her question about security. Several unnotable table attendants instead of a few notable Suits. Perhaps this was another difference between an old civilization and an adolescent one.
Unlike the typical reception line in which all the people moved toward the immobile person of prominence, the President moved toward the immobile people. Much more efficient, thought Lynn. Rather than be stuck with someone who wouldn't move on, or resort to a pull-the-person-forward-handshake some clergy practiced on Sunday mornings, he could graciously control how long he talked with each person. The two couples from Africa were first. He shook their hands and called them by name without glancing at their tags. He said something personal to each one and moved on to Asia, Austria, Europe. It impressed Lynn that he'd taken the time to be blue-booked on the twelve representatives and spouses and had bothered to digest the information, a gracious gesture of hospitality.
Or pragmatic public relations, Lynn.
Give him a break, Ivy!
"Bishop Peterson," said the President, shaking her hand. "You have been in Austria before. It is good to have you back."
"Your beautiful country and this city are special to us," she replied sincerely.
He smiled. "Then you have good taste in both culture and geography." He turned to Galen. "Dr. Peterson, I hope that if you ever write about Austria your words will be favorable."
"How could they be otherwise, President Nausner? You moved past Karl Lueger long ago."
"Thank you both for your warm hospitality to all of us," said Lynn.
"It is a pleasure. Religious leaders have influence that can be helpful . . ." He paused.
"Or destructive," Lynn finished with a smile.
"Your own influence, Bishop Peterson, falls into the former category. I appreciate your international work for peace and the poor." President and Mrs. Nausner moved on to Booker and Sylvia. When they finished greeting the continental representatives, they continued on around the room, welcoming every person in the Great Gallery.
After the reception, they were escorted to a stateroom for President Nausner's address. Lynn scanned the spacious room. Emerald green drapes trimmed the tall windows. The sun shone through them, partnering with the two-tiered chandeli
ers to light the cobalt blue walls. Austria's coat of arms hung on the wall above the dais. The eagle, retained as the country's symbol for more than a thousand years, brought her comfort. Galen pulled out his BlackBerry to take notes.
The President spoke pridefully of the Stephensturm, as Galen had predicted. He shifted to the neighboring Balkans and with a sense of urgency reminded the group of that area's impact on world history: Igniting World War I when a Serb assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand in 1914. Sending a spark flying toward World War II when Croatian Ustashe agents murdered King Alexander. Producing the first terrorists of the twentieth century by getting men from the Skopje, Belgrade, and Sofia slums to swear allegiance to IMRO—taking their oath over an Orthodox Bible and a gun.
Lynn looked at Galen, who was loving every historical word.
The President spoke eloquently of world peace, then concluded his address with two related points. First, citing yesterday's bus bombing as an example, he made a compelling statement against political and religious leaders who foment conflict and violence under the guise of religion—a contradiction of faith, he insisted, in all religions. Second, he built a persuasive argument that bishops must take responsibility for calling religious extremists to accountability. "If you don't," he asked, "who will?"
The entire global body rose for a standing ovation just as Franz Schober joined the President at the podium, whispered briefly, and took his arm to lead him off the platform. President Nausner offered a gracious bow of his head to the audience and smiled warmly. Immediately he turned to leave, flanked by two Size-Seventeens, no longer dressed as waiters.
The Dead Saint Page 11