The Dead Saint
Page 13
"Thank you, Lynn," Sylvia interjected. "President Benedict needs all the positive feedback she can get."
Will went down another track. "I saw you both talking with Chris Nyangoma. What did you think of him?"
Galen frowned. "Trusting that he is not a mendacious man, I wanted to ascertain the situation in Burundi and the reason Bishop Ntaryamir wasn't permitted to leave. But he simply said the country is in chaos again and changed the subject."
Chaos. That word again, like the reverberating bong of a grandfather clock at midnight.
"All Chris knows about Burundi is how to pronounce it," laughed Will. "Late this afternoon protection was mandated for tonight. He was it."
"Protection from bishops." Anne smiled. "That's understandable."
"Not from the bishops. From their spouses," Will corrected with a grin. A staffer brought a message into the den and handed it to him. He read it with features as immobile as Abe's at the Lincoln Memorial. "I'm sorry. I must take this phone call."
Anne poured another round of tea. "I miss the four of us being together like this." She looked closely at Lynn, her eyes filled with kindness. "You look good."
"Do I hear relief?"
"Oh, Lynn . . . I don't think I could walk in your shoes . . . I mean . . ."
"Lyndie is with me in a different way now, but I'll always feel her presence." The quicksand threatened, and she changed the subject. "It was a lovely dinner party."
Will returned, his demeanor somber. "That was President Nausner." He sagged into the leather chair. "Originally I resented the mandate of protection tonight, but now I understand." He hesitated. "I don't want to alarm you."
Alarming words, Lynn.
Right, Ivy.
He leaned forward in his chair and spoke softly, inviting confidentiality. The other three mirrored his posture. "This must be kept between us."
Galen's intense dark eyes deepened. "Both Lynn and I hold everything in confidence, Will. Information shared with us is the teller's to tell—not ours."
"I know," said Will. "That's why I'm entrusting you with this. The President told me a black briefcase identical to his—complete with his initials in gold—was found at Schönbrunn Palace this afternoon." He paused and swallowed, collecting himself. "It contained a bomb." After letting the words settle, he added, "It was supposed to blow up during the President's address. Franz Schober discovered it."
Lynn distanced herself from the surreal image and crept into her safe haven deep inside.
Galen's eyes darkened, his irises moving back and forth in a journey from horror to gratitude. "Something seemed to be amiss at the end of the address, but no bomb was mentioned!"
"And it won't be. That's why this is absolutely confidential. President Nausner has an unwritten policy he calls a 'strategy of silence.' He is adamant that publicity abets terrorism. Even when a bomb does no damage, news of the attempt itself spreads fear."
Lynn thought back to the afternoon. They hadn't created chaos by whisking the President away without a word or evacuating the audience or calling in the Austrian equivalent of the FBI and CIA, the local police and Green Beret. "They handled a bomb threat without creating anxiety!"
"No publicity. No panic. No reward for the perpetrator," Will said.
"Think about the terrorists who planned this. Can't you see them turning on the news? Watching. Waiting. And nothing!" Lynn loved it.
"How did someone get a bomb into the palace?" asked practical Anne.
"Bishops and spouses tend to be trusted." Will glanced at Galen with a grin. "Despite present company."
"Trusted and also trusting." Lynn thought of Chris Nyangoma and their lack of suspicion that he was anything other than a bishop's representative.
"What's interesting is that President Nausner said the bomb turned out to be faulty. Even if they hadn't found it, it wouldn't have gone off."
The oddity struck Lynn. "I don't understand, Will. How could a terrorist be skilled enough to get a bomb inside the palace but so unskilled that it was faulty?"
"That, Lynn, is the ultimate question."
The ensuing silence was interrupted by the mantle clock's eleven chimes. Galen set his teacup on the tray. "I don't want this evening to end, but we leave for the Balkans tomorrow and still have to pack."
"I wish you would reconsider your fact-finding mission. This is not the time."
"You would go, Mr. Ambassador," said Lynn. "The concern that this is not the time makes it exactly the right time."
"If I were saying that, I suppose I would consider it a logical argument. But hearing it, it sounds like insanity."
"We'll be perfectly safe, my friend," said Galen.
"Perfectly safe!" Anne shook her head.
Will looked at them, hazel eyes concerned, smile gone. "Be alert. Err on the side of caution. A surprising number of people work against peace in the Balkans." He paused and added in a grave tone. "There are some rumors about a terrorist organization called St. Sava."
Lynn tried not to react. Start with St. Sava. The President's final words in her message to Major Manetti.
"I tended to discount them."
"Why is that?" asked Lynn, trying to sound casual.
"The CIA doesn't think it exists. They believe it's merely an ancient myth."
She was puzzled. Does President Benedict know something the CIA doesn't? Or is the CIA covering up St. Sava? Neither option seemed helpful.
"Austrian security found where Manetti's sniper hid at the airport yesterday morning. He left behind only one piece of evidence: a note kept out of the news. It said that St. Sava claims responsibility."
"Puzzling." Galen rose. "But we'll have to ponder it tomorrow."
Lynn remained seated. "What do you think about St. Sava now, Will?" She'd just made her first attempt—feeble as it was—to comply with President Benedict's request of Major Manetti. Start with St. Sava. She felt she was dancing with danger at a masked ball, unable to distinguish friend from enemy. But sitting it out was not an option.
"I'm not sure what to think." He took their hands. "What I am sure of is that I don't want you special people to end up a terrorist target."
Lynn hugged Anne and him. "I'll email you a note for the President. My deepest thanks, Will."
46
Before repacking late Monday night, Lynn turned on her baby laptop to write an email to President Benedict. An email to President Benedict—the irrational reality stunned her. She saw a message from Bubba and read it first. He described Elie's jazz funeral. What a celebration! She would always regret not being there. She gave herself a few moments of silent gratitude that his life had touched hers. He would live on in her memory.
She moved on to the rest of Bubba's email. His last sentence puzzled her:
Elie's case is officially closed, but thanks to the persuasion of our friend at the lab an end run is in the works. I pledged to help your favorite cop. Stay safe in the Balkans, Bubba
Chief Armstrong had to be responsible for this maneuver. Evidently Francine Babineaux had convinced him to take a closer look. Way to go! But why an unofficial green light? So unofficial that he was wary of using his department detectives and had turned to trustworthy Cy Bill Bergeron. She wished she could help.
You can, Lynn. You're withholding information—like not telling Cy Bill that the mime is still alive.
Ouch. She wanted to. She should have told Bubba immediately that Elie's medal was stolen. She started to rationalize. Stopped herself. Refused to dig up those clams again. Hurriedly she replied:
The sniper is alive. I saw him. More later.
When would later come? But right now the priority was her email for the President. She typed the first three words quickly:
Dear Madam President,
Thank you for leading our country with courage and honor. I greatly admire you.
So did Major Marshall Manetti. He was grateful for an opportunity to serve his Commander-in-Chief. We became acquainted at the Frankfurt airport w
hile waiting for our plane to Vienna. Perhaps you are aware that a sniper killed him when we landed. During that fateful flight, the major spent the final moments of his life reading a little item on ranching. After the tragedy, a chaplain friend, my husband, and I followed the ambulance to the hospital. Major Manetti was pronounced dead on arrival.
Immediately afterward a bomb exploded on a nearby bus, and all the medical staff frantically treated the injured. Under the circumstances the major was left unattended in an alcove. I stood beside him and prayed. Being so close, I noticed that the item on ranching was in his pocket.
I have the impression that you shared a common interest in ranching, and he was a friend of yours. Because of that, I thought you might like to have something special to both of you, so I saved it. If he was indeed the friend to you that he seemed to be, I offer my condolences. One minute a man is alive and reading, and the next minute the machete falls. An officer as competent and committed as Major Manetti is irreplaceable. The world goes on, but not without a void.
If I can be of assistance to you in any way, I would be honored to do so.
Respectfully yours,
Lynn Peterson
She reread the cryptic email. Too cryptic. But she didn't have time to perfect it. She put in Will's email address and hit Send. Done! Little black letters forming little black words forming little black sentences—all virtual. Like communication itself.
For the last time she removed from her waist wallet the innocuous ranch message President Benedict had written to Major Manetti—concrete evidence that her imagination hadn't sent her on a trip into fantasyland. No sane person would link it to the President of the United States. Nor even believe Lynn if she suggested the absurdity. She was tempted to save it as presidential memorabilia. But mostly she wanted rid of it. Rid of its burden. Rid of any possibility of a situation necessitating an explanation. Even to Galen. She wadded up the plain envelope and tossed it in the wastebasket. Then she tore off the strip at the close of the letter: Start with St. Sava. It left her with such an eerie feeling that she didn't like holding it. She tore it into the tiniest pieces she could, then ripped the rest of the letter into tatters and flushed it down the toilet. Free at last! From the written message, yes. But not from its words. They remained indelibly printed in her mind.
You are in w-a-a-a-y over your head, Lynn.
47
The Tuesday morning agenda for the International Conference of Bishops called for a break at ten o'clock. Lynn used it to go to the quiet of her room and call Mihail Martinovski in Skopje, the pastor in charge of the Macedonian leg of her trip. Galen, free from the boredom of meetings, was spending the morning touring Vienna and delving into its history. She unlocked the door and walked in on the maid, startling them both. Recovering, Lynn smiled at her. A thin and tallish woman, she smiled back shyly and moved to the bed to smooth the floral duvet. She wore an immaculate gray dress and starched white pinafore apron with matching cap.
Lynn sat down at the desk with paper and pen for notes and punched the numbers. "This is Bishop Peterson for Pastor Martinovski." As she waited for him, she watched the maid straighten the towels and smiled at her.
"Good morning, Bishop Peterson. It is good to hear from you."
"And a good morning to you also, Mihail."
"Are you still coming?"
"We will arrive this evening."
"I am very glad." His voice sounded genuinely pleased.
"Do you remember that we go from Skopje to Sarajevo on Friday?"
The maid glanced up.
"Yes." He paused. "Are you worried about the danger?"
"We know that there is a no-travel advisement. But sometimes the State Department exaggerates. What do you think about the situation in Sarajevo?"
The maid puffed the pillows, lingering.
"It is fairly safe, I think."
"Fairly safe is good enough."
"We want you to stay with us while you are here."
"That is very kind. We would enjoy being with you and Elena, but the hotel is arranged. Maybe next time."
"I will meet you at the airport."
"Thank you, Mihail. We appreciate that. We'll see you after we go through customs."
The maid glanced up.
When she ended the call, the maid pulled at her apron and spoke timidly in broken English. "Sarajevo? You go?"
Lynn nodded.
She pulled back a strand of brown hair that had fallen loose from her stiff cap. "Ja se zovem Natalia." She pointed to her name badge. "Natalia."
Lynn recognized the Serbo-Croatian words, surprised they weren't German. "Dobro jutro," she greeted Natalia in her language—thanks to Elie. Elie.
The familiar greeting seemed to stun Natalia, then please her.
Lynn continued, pointing to herself, "Ja se zovem Lynn."
"Govorite li . . ."
"No. Ne," Lynn interrupted, shaking her head. "Speak few words," she said slowly, indicating a tiny space with her thumb and index finger.
"Možete li mi pomoći molim Vas?"
Lynn only caught "please" and shook her head again. "Ne razumem."
Natalia made the phone gesture with thumb to ear. "You say Bishop Peterson?"
She nodded. "Da."
"You help?" Natalia touched the small gold Orthodox cross around her neck.
"If I can."
"Majka . . . Mama. Mama in Sarajevo. I give novac . . .money."
Lynn decided to double her tip.
"No pošta! Krasti . . . steal!"
"Da," Lynn agreed, remembering Elie's concern regarding his mother getting the money he sent because of stolen mail.
"You take." A conclusion, not a question.
"Take where? Gdje?"
Natalia stretched out her left palm and made writing motions with her right forefinger like addressing an envelope, then mimed putting in money, licking the flap, and sealing it. "I bring." Bobbing her head, she added, "Easy place. You find."
Lynn nodded and smiled. "OK."
"Hvala Vam mnogo."
Lynn gestured around the clean room. "Hvala." She followed Natalia to the door. "See you later. Dovidjenja." That depleted her repertoire.
Natalia bobbed her head again, picked up a canvas tote that Lynn assumed contained cleaning supplies, and went on her way.
Lynn walked with her to the door. Before closing it, she glanced down the hall. Something seemed different about Natalia. It was the way she walked. She had exchanged a timid-maid bearing for an air of Hillary Clinton confidence. Puzzled, she silently closed the door and scanned their room. The packed suitcases still stood zipped and against the wall. She shrugged off her suspicion, attributing it to an imagination as out of control as a racehorse with broken reins. She locked the door behind her to return to the meeting.
Why was the door closed while the maid worked in your room, Lynn? Yesterday morning weren't all the maids finished before now? Did you see any others between here and the meeting room?
48
John Adams rose at his usual five-thirty, eager to get to his office for a few hours of uninterrupted work. He took a shower, still seething over yesterday's bomb debacle. He wasn't used to being thwarted.
He stood under the warm water and calmed himself. His conversation with Frank Fillmore last night had confirmed his theory. Fillmore had delivered. Nausner had applied the strategy of silence. Fillmore was the only elite who had no recognizable conscience. His concern about this assignment had been the twist. Why build a bomb and make it faulty? But whys were unacceptable. The Patriot kept him heeled like a dog on a leash through a generous retainer that bought his loyalty and assured his availability. He used extreme caution in dealing with all of his elites, but especially Fillmore.
One reason he'd had the bomb planted was to profit from people's fear. It served God's purposes for money to be in his hands—the one God had chosen to define and implement justice. But he also wanted to teach President Benedict a lesson. Distasteful but necessary. Sh
e seemed unaware that the Secret Service exists precisely because of presidential vulnerability. The discovery of a bomb at the feet of another country's president would knock a hole in her innate confidence, and he'd intended to rush in with his Triple S maneuver: sensitive, solicitous, and supportive. The cover-up, and that's exactly what it was, meant that Benedict still rode the wings of invulnerability. His Vienna teaching-moment had been a costly failure. He grew angry again. A pointless reaction he realized as the water massaged his tense shoulder muscles.
Dawn broke in a cloudless sky as he rushed to his office, the traffic already humming. He liked the feel of the steering wheel in his common, thus invisible, black Ford. He always bought cars made in the USA to further his patriotic image. As he drove, he reran last night's second phone call. Acting on his instincts, he'd decided to initiate a personal investigation of Lynn Peterson. He'd contacted his Balkan connection, the investigative genius in his cadre of elites. As sharp as Zeller and nearly as committed as Lone Star. The right man in the right place. He sighed and a frown followed. All of this because of President Benedict.
Her Inner Circle benefited him but also discouraged him. Thoughts rolled through his mind about the plague of pretense within it. No one dared acknowledge the real problem: anti-American Americanism. The grand beginnings of the Great Democracy had eroded into pretense. He had watched statesmanship drown in the stormy sea of fogged facts, sound bites, and photo ops. Propaganda shaped perspective, hype shaded honesty, and revenge stole reason. Too many elected and appointed officials showed a woeful lack of vision. They sacrificed their ideals and honor, selling themselves to flag-tattering causes—trading the eagle for the golden calf of reelection. President Benedict had inherited the situation, not caused it. He had to give her that.
The politicos had learned the power of words. They hired think tanks and focus groups to promote self-interest instead of American interests. Brilliant linguists and hardball marketers filtered facts through nuance and euphemism, contriving spins that worked despite slapping logic in the face. They could reshape public perspective in inconceivable ways akin to snipping off American beauty roses and renaming them thorn bushes. Bombardment changed gullible citizens' ideas and vocabulary. The power of language! The power of deception!