The Dead Saint

by Marilyn Brown Oden

  A lone white sock remained, tucked in the back corner. He picked it up to toss in the throwaway pile and felt something in it. Even in the silence he looked over each shoulder to be sure he was alone and kept the sock in the locker protected from view as he stuck his hand inside. His fingers touched a small, hard object. He pulled out a USB flash drive.

  Bubba rubbed his thumb across it and carried on a mental monologue aimed at Elie. Why didn't you just tell me about this? Why didn't you just stick it in the shoebox? You had to have some reason. Regardless of the why, the what was clear: Its secrecy was imperative to Elie. I'll honor that secrecy with my life, bro.

  Paranoia persuaded him to keep his own computer clean. He'd already had one stealth visitor. He looked at his watch, stunned by how late it was. He didn't have time to take the flash drive to the library computers at Tulane before the Saints' private tribute to Elie. Missing it was unthinkable. Afterward the library would be closed. He'd go to Tulane first thing in the morning before shooting the TV ad for United Way. He started to put the flash drive in his pocket but decided to leave it in the locker where Elie had chosen to hide it. He put it back exactly as he'd found it and piled everything on top. He had no idea how long it had been there, but it had been safe so far.

  Safe so far. He hesitated. Surely it would be safe one more night. He slammed his locker door and headed for the team's tribute to Elie.

  53

  The flight from Vienna to Skopje, unfortunately, was memorable. The adventure—or misadventure—began soon after No-Nonsense deplaned. The attendant, a large-boned woman with masculine features, charged toward them like El Toro. "Seatbelts!" she ordered. Her gaze darted to Big-Black, obviously measuring its size as Lynn shoved her "small personal item" under the seat. A budding starlet with a captive audience, she dramatically shook her head and gave a disdainful there's-always-one roll of her eyes.

  Lynn wondered if her embarrassment and humiliation had something to do with the rules being on El Toro's side. It's self-defeating to alienate a flight attendant, so Lynn smiled at her—a gesture evidently interpreted as the swirl of a matador's cape.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, your extravagant lack of consideration is not helpful. First you delayed our departure. Then you had yourselves escorted on board by a security guard who left the wounded in his wake."

  She excelled in the capacity to make Lynn feel small. And to do it in fluent English.

  Before El Toro could continue the goring, takeoff was announced. Nostrils flaring and head down, cheated of pawing the ground, she wheeled and charged to her seat.

  Seatbelt, Lynn was tempted to call. She and Galen looked at each other, astonished. "Well, Love, that was entertaining!"

  "I hope you have a couple of parachutes in your 'purse.' She may make us jump."

  As the plane rose into the air, the feeling of being watched returned to Lynn. Well, she thought, no wonder. El Toro played to the passengers at our expense. Everyone in the area is looking at us.

  The man across the aisle from Galen leaned toward them and initiated conversation. His eyes belied his open pose. Lynn thought of a crouching tiger waiting to pounce. She trusted Galen's sense of judgment. He didn't need help. Her well of emotional reserves was close to the bottom, and she turned toward the window. The tiger will get nothing from me.

  Lynn rued the reality that there was not time for deeper reflection on Vienna before preparing for Skopje. And the same would be true when she left Skopje for Sarajevo. There was never time to reflect on the last place and anticipate the next place. They just hustled themselves from one setting to another with research in between. She gazed out the window, watching the sunset colors dance with the distant horizon. Soaring through the darkening sky five miles above the stench of recent realities playing out on the planet, she moved at last into the center of herself. Peaceful. Resting. Feeling her heart beat to the rhythm of the universe. Breathing slowly and deeply. Speeding through space, profoundly still. Refilling the well.

  A tap from behind startled her. She peered down at the broad fingers of the large hand on her shoulder and turned around toward its owner, who sat directly behind Galen.

  "Excuse me. Little English." The passenger spoke hesitantly in a thick accent that Lynn recognized as Russian. His firm jaw and direct eyes left her with the impression of a straightforward man who got to the bottom of things. "Mrs. Peterson?"

  She nodded, unsurprised since El Toro had broadcast their last name.

  "Bishop Lynn Peterson?"

  Now that surprised her! She couldn't recall her first name or title being used on the plane or while waiting at the gate. She nodded but decided to withhold both her warmth and limited words in his language until she had a better feel for the situation.

  "Viktor," he said, putting his hand on his chest. "I see your . . ." He framed a picture with his thumbs and forefingers and said slowly, laboriously, "You write . . . little Russian book."

  Ah! Lynn fell in love with anyone who recognized her face from a book cover instead of a passport photo. The "little book" was about her denomination's work in Russia. "Yes, sir," she acknowledged with a smile. "Da, gospodin."

  It was his turn to be surprised. "You speak Russian?"

  She shook her head. "Nyet."

  "Your book . . . good book."

  She refrained from leaping over the seat and kissing him on each cheek, Russian style. "Thank you, Viktor. Spasebo."

  Struggling for the words, he said, "It . . . catch Russian . . .spirit."

  She basked in his compliment.

  Cool the vanity, Lynn.

  Then a maelstrom of questions swirled through her mind. How did he know my full name? Did he really recognize me from my picture in the little Russian book? How did he learn about it?

  It wasn't exactly an international best seller, Lynn.

  He didn't Google me. This plane doesn't have wireless. And he couldn't have known I'd be on the plane. She smiled to herself, realizing that what she wanted to believe actually made the most sense: Viktor was a nice man who had discovered her book, read it, and liked it, just as he had said.

  Suddenly the plane banked to the left and interrupted Galen's conversation with the man across the aisle. He turned to Lynn. "Do you suppose we're returning to Vienna?"

  Hijacked, she thought, then joked because she was scared. "Just avoiding a black hole, Love."

  "The lady likes hyperbole." His grin looked less spontaneous than contrived to console. The plane lurched. Dipped. Seemed to go into freefall. The wings caught the air again. The engines roared with a mighty thrust of power. The plane rose in a sharp climb, then leveled and flew steadily through the night sky.

  "Well, Love, that was entertaining!" She realized they were clinging to each other.

  A voice from the cockpit filled the plane, first in German-accented English. "This is the captain speaking. Vienna Air Traffic Control failed to provide a flight plan that took into account heavy military action in the Balkans. As a precaution to ensure your safety, we have been diverted and issued a new flight plan. Our arrival time in Skopje will be later than scheduled. The crew apologizes for the Vienna ATC. Thank you for your understanding." With an edge of levity, he added, "My friends, we would volunteer to participate in this noble NATO cause, but all we could drop is luggage."

  Lynn glanced out the dark window, grateful she couldn't see fireworks.

  PART III

  The Tragedy

  Tuesday, 8:33 P.M.

  Skopje. City of myths and mysticism. Where poets speak in bitter hyperbole, and ethnic versions of history are disparate paintings of the same landscape. Where in ancient days Alexander the Great set out to conquer the world and in current days Goce Delchev, guerilla-terrorist who founded IMRO, lies buried under a fir tree at the Church of Sveti Spas.

  Skopje. Capital of Macedonia. A place of changing borders and unchanging strategy. Recycling savagery from ruler to ruler. Provoking religious hatred to dispel the threat of a people united. Ignitin
g wars because of unresolved issues.

  Skopje. City with a new dream rising from the darkness like a bright moon at midnight.

  54

  The plane landed safely at Skopje's Alexander the Great Airport at 8:33 on Tuesday night. The moment Lynn stepped off, her mind reverted to the shot she'd heard when she had disembarked at Flughafen Wien two days ago. She heard it again. Felt the same fear. Saw Marsh sprawled on the ramp in his white uniform.

  Galen put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You're shaking, Lynn."

  "The sniper . . ."

  He bent down and whispered tenderly. "It's OK. That was there. It's over."

  She doubted it would ever be over for her.

  All passengers deplaned safely—it was getting admitted to Macedonia that proved a nightmare. President Basil Dimitrovski well understood that both factions in the Balkan conflict used the age-old ploy of evoking revenge to gain support, and one strategy was to commit a terrorist act that would look like the other side did it. Loose airport security at a busy airport was an open invitation. Not on his watch!

  The passengers snaked toward security, slowed by scanners, metal detectors, and agents who searched both luggage and people. Lynn scanned the crowd. The man who'd sat across the aisle from Galen and engaged him in lengthy conversation stood third behind them in line, El Toro now on his arm.

  Aha, Lynn! A little hanky-panky?

  As they crept forward, Lynn reviewed their itinerary. "Mihail Martinovski is meeting us at the airport and taking us to the hotel," she told Galen.

  "I remember meeting him in Oslo when President Dimitrovski received the World Peace Award. 'In commendation for his creativity, consistency, and courage,' " cited Galen.

  The myriad details stored on Galen's mental hard drive amazed Lynn. "We're scheduled for coffee with the President tomorrow morning."

  "Good! He's a remarkable man, the only Balkan leader able to keep his country out of the conflict. No minor miracle."

  "And," Lynn added proudly, "he's in our denomination. Mihail is his pastor."

  Watch the brag, Lynn.

  "I'm afraid our delay is keeping Mihail waiting far too long." Galen's voice rang with impatience.

  "Since there's nothing we can do, Love, we just have to let things unfold." She knew her words would bounce off him like raindrops on an umbrella. He focused on getting things folded rather than letting them unfold. A do-it man instead of a to-do-list man.

  "We should have taken a cab to the hotel."

  "I disagree, Galen. It's as important to accept hospitality as to offer it."

  He grinned. "I'm bored, Lynn, and pulling your string. You're right about Mihail's hospitality."

  "I really like him," she said, restraining all the other words that came to mind about pulling someone's string.

  When they reached the head of the line, the security agent took everything out of her roll-aboard, piece by piece. He thoroughly and methodically unfolded each garment. Unzipped each pocket. Opened the toiletry bag. Checked her compact and lipstick tube. She expected him to tell her to open her mouth so he could inspect the mint in her mouth. By the time Mr. Thorough-&-Methodical finished, she had no secrets from him or anyone nearby.

  T&M looked at the pile of things he'd removed, his eyes measuring it against the size of her suitcase. He shrugged, gestured for her to repack, and turned her over to a woman agent. She opened everything in Big-Black, including two envelopes—one containing their itinerary, and one the note to Mrs. Darwish from Bubba. She patted Lynn down, felt the waist wallet, and asked to search it. Lynn had included Bubba's money with her own—not enough combined to be suspicious for a traveler from the States. No note from the President. Lynn smiled, feeling like a pro.

  But this was not Galen's day for positive experiences with security agents. The trouble started when T&M's gloved hand lifted Natalia's wrapped box. For the first time he spoke, using careful English, "What is this?"

  "You may open it," said Galen with his customary air of authority.

  T&M's glance over the rims of his glasses stated that permission was not needed.

  Galen reached for the package to show him what Natalia had written on the brown wrapping paper: To Father Nish from Natalia.

  "No! Hands back!"

  With difficulty Galen swallowed words and obeyed.

  "What is it?" he repeated.

  "A little money," said Galen. "The hotel maid in Vienna asked us to take it to her priest in Sarajevo. He'll give it to her family."

  "She doesn't trust the post," Lynn added, a corroborative witness.

  "How did you get a wrapped package through Vienna security?"

  Galen and Lynn looked at each other. To confess that she misled No-Nonsense seemed incriminating.

  "Austrians!" T&M muttered with cultural contempt. He untied the string on the package, neither careful nor careless, thoroughly and methodically doing his duty. As he unwrapped it, the paper crackled like convicting evidence before a jury. When he removed the lid from the check-size box, he whistled softly.

  Lynn felt scared.

  "Do you expect me to believe that a hotel maid earns this much money? And entrusted it to a stranger?" He turned the box upside down. An inch-thick wad of pretty pink bills tumbled to the table, each worth 500 euros. "You insult me!"

  Lynn and Galen gaped at the stack as T&M fanned through the bills.

  "I don't understand." Galen's tone of authority had vanished.

  "Perhaps not." The agent's eyes narrowed. "But perhaps you do."

  Everyone in line behind them watched this center-ring circus performance. Viktor called to her in his limited, Russian-accented English. "You . . . need help?"

  She shrugged, palms up, then shook her head. There was nothing he could do. Besides, T&M might lump Russians right there with Austrians!

  T&M reached into the box and pulled out a piece of blue paper at the bottom.

  Lynn stared at it and gripped the table. The paper held a simple drawing in ink. It depicted two vertically overlapping crescent moons that were enclosed in a circle. The symbol! Elie's medal. Sasha's cross. And now Natalia's box. She felt T&M looking at her, his eyes dissecting her behavior.

  She recovered and tried to hide her recognition. "Interesting little drawing," she said meekly.

  Those were the last words she spoke standing beside Galen. A nod from the agent brought two uniformed guards, who separated them despite capable Galen's best effort to keep them together. With a firm grip the guards escorted Lynn and Galen to different rooms for interrogation. Interrogation! Images of Abu Ghraib flashed vividly.

  Galen glanced back at her and smiled. A brave front, but she saw the fear in his eyes. That was when terror struck her.

  55

  Lynn sat alone in a small room with two hard chairs. Right now Galen was being interrogated. It was the scariest word she could think of for someone in a foreign country. She would be next. Her stomach churned. Fear pounded in her heart. Breath grew short.

  Get a grip, Lynn!

  She struggled to think. Thoughts shattered and scattered like fragments of a smashed kaleidoscope. She slowed her breathing. Deepened it. Closed her eyes. Calmed herself with the ancient Jesus Prayer, slowly praying "Lord Jesus Christ" while inhaling, and "Have mercy on me" while exhaling. Breath. Ruah. Spirit.

  The laptop! She took a quick mental inventory of anything personal or incriminating. The email to President Benedict and Will's response! She took the laptop from Big-Black. Pulled up the web mail file. Thank you for speed. Clicked Sent Items. President. Delete. Pulled up Deleted Items. Hit Delete again. Repeated the process for Received Items. Clicked Whitcomb. Delete. Delete deletions.

  The door jerked open.

  With three quick moves she exited the email file, clicked on the Solitaire shortcut and opened a game.

  "STOP!" The officer grabbed her laptop so fast she feared he'd drop it. The fury in his face matched the anger in his voice.

  She tasted fear, a bitter bile in
the back of her throat.

  He glared at the screen. Blinked. A deck of cards greeted him, lined up in a tidy row, ready for play. He stared at them for a few moments, his anger subsiding. He looked from the screen to Lynn. He actually smiled.

  She smiled back, and they both laughed. His laughter came from surprise. Hers from the release of sheer terror. Then tears began to roll down her cheeks. Tears for Major Manetti. For young Sasha with no legs. For Galen in another room—undergoing what? Tears of stress and weariness. Silent, uncontrollable tears.

  The officer sat down in the second straight-backed chair and watched her for a while. "If you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear." His accent indicated British-taught English. Lynn saw compassion in his eyes. "The same is true for your husband."

  Trying to keep her voice from shaking, she said, "Sir, Pastor Mihail Martinovski has a church here in Skopje. He is meeting us."

  "I know of him."

  "I am concerned about his long wait. He may be worried." She could feel the tears still overflowing. Her voice was timorous but steady. "Could someone tell him we have been delayed?"

  He pondered the request an inordinate length of time. "I do not see how that can cause any harm." He rose. "I will tell him myself."

  "Our names are . . ."

  He smiled as to a child. "I have your name, Lynn Prejean Peterson."

  "Of course," she stammered. "This is new to me."

  He handed her the laptop. "Playing solitaire is misleading. I think you should put this away."

  "Yes, sir."

  Time dragged on after he left. Lynn sat unmoving. Worrying about Galen. Waiting and wondering. Worrying about Galen. Feeling watched. Worrying about Galen. She tried again to center herself, this time in vain. She feared she'd lost the center for good.

  The door opened, and the officer reappeared. "I am sorry, Bishop Peterson," he apologized. "I wish you had told me."