The Dead Saint

by Marilyn Brown Oden

  Told him what?

  "I did not introduce myself earlier. I am Agent Nedelkovski. Please come." He held the door open, a gentleman for a lady, and bowed like a squire. She could imagine him doffing a plumed hat. The situation had clearly changed.

  She saw Galen, already in the hall, Natalia's box in hand. He appeared fine. Thank you. They rushed to each other. No one stopped them.

  Agent Nedelkovski escorted them through customs directly to Mihail. He waited, smiling and patient, a replica of St. Francis at peace within despite the turbulent world without. Obviously the good pastor had done something on their behalf. Nedelkovski spoke to Mihail in words she couldn't understand, but she understood the respect in his voice.

  Before departing, he turned to them and spoke with the same respectful tone. "Good night, Bishop Peterson, Dr. Peterson. I sincerely hope the rest of your stay in Skopje is better than the beginning."

  Mihail ushered them toward his car to take them to Hotel Aleksandar. Lynn took a deep breath of freedom's air and gazed up at the clear Skopje sky. "Look! A swing moon!"

  "That's what she always calls it," Galen explained, putting his arm around her.

  "The same one all around the world," she marveled.

  "It's beautiful," said Mihail. "A message of light and oneness for all God's people."

  She touched his arm. "I don't know what you did, Pastor Martinovski, but thank you."

  "You have our deepest appreciation," Galen added.

  Mihail chuckled. "To be truthful, Agent Nedelkovski discounted my opinion of you. So I telephoned President Dimitrovski. He remembers you from Oslo, Bishop Peterson, and speaks highly of you. He said he's looking forward to coffee with us in the morning. He personally made a telephone call on your behalf." Again he chuckled. "Nedelkovski did not discount his opinion. Here in Macedonia, only God ranks above him!"

  56

  Bubba was the last to leave the team's private tribute to Elie. He swung his leg over his 'Vette and noted the crescent moon above. Normally he would enjoy driving beneath it, but not tonight. His friend's death left a hole in his life, and the flash drive consumed him. His cell phone rang, and he recognized the voice of Boudreau Guidry Tietje, attorney-at-law.

  After dancing around the Southern niceties, his voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm calling to warn you."

  The nervous tone jarred Bubba more than the words. He knew scared when he heard it, and this man was terrified.

  "Tonight two gunmen barged into my office. They threatened my life."

  The Mafia came to mind.

  "They knew I was Elias Darwish's attorney."

  "Call the police. Speak directly to Cy Bill Bergeron."

  "They demanded all my information. They were specifically interested in whether he had a safe deposit box. I told them he didn't. Then they asked if he had given me anything to give to anyone else."

  "You told them about me?" Bubba tried to keep alarm out of his voice.

  "Not exactly."

  That means yes.

  "I said I follow my clients' instructions, and everything went to his mother as requested."

  "Good for you. So the work is on its way?"

  "I told the gunmen that everything went to her. I didn't say I'd sent it."

  Lawyer legalese. But the wily man had shown courage in misleading them.

  "So they don't know about the shoebox?"

  "They were holding guns on me! They forced me to let them examine his file. They said they'd just as soon kill me and locate it by themselves. It's filed under D—as easy to find as old Andy's statue at Jackson Square." He paused.

  Bubba waited for the words he knew were coming.

  "I'm sorry, Bubba. They saw your name. You'll be next—that's for sure."

  57

  Lynn awoke and lay quietly in bed in their room at Hotel Aleksandar, a room similar to the one in Vienna. She checked the clock: four-thirty. She wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, but she had work to do. Quietly she took Balkan Ghosts into the bathroom and turned on the light for a crash course on Macedonia. She padded the back of the tub with bath towels and leaned against them. What she read chilled her. For more than a century, the "Macedonia Question" had repeatedly flared and led to war. Each nation that had ever ruled in any part of Macedonia still felt entitled to the country, and zealous patriots from those countries considered its reclamation a matter of national pride. A nation a bit smaller than Maryland had repeatedly shifted world history!

  Her own world had also shifted. Thoughts of Elie, the major, and the mind-bending mystery of President Benedict's response cycled through her mind. Start with St. Sava. She checked the index and found two references. Both referred to Serbia's patron saint, also written Sabbas. Born Rastno, he was the youngest son of Stefan Nemanja, king of Serbia. His father ruled a highly civilized state and could sign his name at a time in history when the Holy Roman Emperor in Germany had to use a thumbprint. She recalled another St. Sabbas seven centuries earlier, who founded Mar Saba near the Dead Sea and was over all the Palestinian houses. She scanned the rest of Kaplan's information. Too weary to concentrate further, she put down the book and went back to bed.

  But she lay awake, rerunning Will's puzzling email. Why didn't he simply forward the President's response? Lynn didn't doubt for a moment his integrity, which brought her back to her original tilt-a-whirl. Since that fateful ride with the Vice President, she'd begun to doubt his honesty, or worse, the President's honesty—or the security and control of White House communications. Accepting that envelope had proved a curse. It had caused her to be less than truthful with Galen, turned her fluffy little world awry and evoked a new level of inner terror. All she really wanted to do was make measures of music in the song of life. Instead, she was embroiled in measures of malice in a world of conspiracy.

  58

  Bubba felt the difference in his condo the moment he entered. He glanced around warily. Nothing disturbed. Poised for action, he left the door slightly ajar and listened.

  Two men stepped from the bedroom, guns drawn.

  Bubba sized up the opposition. The shorter one's jowls and stance mirrored a pit bull. The taller one's face was a mass of wide, chubby wrinkles, reminding Bubba of his sister's obedient Chinese shar-pei. Game time. He donned his warm TV interview smile. "Whatever you folks want might as well be discussed in a friendly fashion over a beer."

  They glanced at each other. "This ain't no social call!" snarled Pit Bull.

  Bubba eyed their guns. "I see you boys brought your toys."

  "Look, Bubba, we don't want no trouble with a Saint," Shar-Pei replied.

  "You're Saints fans?"

  Shar-Pei's wrinkles wiggled their way into a smile. "We like to bet on the Saints when we think y'all will win."

  Bubba tried a diversion. "The odds were better when Elias Darwish was alive. You should've thought of that before you killed him."

  They both looked shocked—the real thing. "They caught his killer," said Pit Bull. "Where you been?"

  "We ain't in the Saint-killing business." Shar-Pei lowered his gun. "We might bribe a Saint, but we ain't going to shoot one."

  Bubba smiled approval. "Cabrioni's boys are smarter than that."

  Shar-Pei nodded. "No cops and no Saints."

  "That's the code." Pit Bull spoke the word code as reverently as a priest offering the Holy Cup. But he didn't holster his gun.

  "The shoebox is on the table." Bubba gestured. "Right there."

  "He left you shoes?" asked Shar-Pei.

  "Some photos."

  "For blackmail?" Pit Bull's personal interest increased mightily. "Keep him guarded while I take a look." He removed the photos and flipped through them. Then he flung them back on the table.

  Shar-Pei took a turn. "Just a bunch of pictures of you and Darwish."

  "Are you trying to insult us?" Pit Bull aimed his gun and steadied it with both hands.

  Shar-Pei scowled. "A man doesn't leave some stupid pictures with his lawyer! W
hat do you take us for!"

  A couple of clowns play-acting Mafia goons in a B movie, thought Bubba.

  "Don't force me to make an exception to the code!" barked Pit Bull.

  He needed to be careful. They were the New Orleans version of the real thing. Unpredictable and dangerous. He shifted to his persuasive shoe-ad style. "That's all he gave me. Maybe as a tough kicker he wanted to hide his sentimental side. The three of us know how that is."

  They pondered the idea but remained skeptical. Shar-Pei spoke. "You got to give us the rest of it, Bubba."

  Pit Bull lowered his aim. "First it'll be the knees. That'll kill your career."

  Cy Bill shoved the door open. "Police!"

  Three guns aimed. Bubba stood in the crossfire. He called the play. It wouldn't hurt to have these guys in his debt. "Not to worry, officer. My good friends here were just leaving."

  Cy Bill's eyes stayed on them. "Explain the guns."

  "These gentlemen are just feeling protective after what happened to our kicker."

  "That's right," said Shar-Pei, holstering his gun.

  Pit Bull followed suit. "He's safe now that you're here, officer."

  "You have my word as a Saint," said Bubba, his right hand raised, "that those pictures are what Elias Darwish left me." Legalese: Distort perception by telling only part of the truth. "You boys can take the photos if you want to. After your boss has a look, get them back to me, and I can probably arrange some fifty-yard-line seats. Down close." Appeased and relieved, they thanked him as they left.

  Cy Bill holstered his gun and parked himself in a chair. "I'm glad ol' Boudreau warned you, Bubba."

  "Let's talk unofficially, Cy Bill." He waited for a nod. Bubba told him about the note and flash drive. "I think it would be wise to make a confidential backup copy for you. As a friend—not a cop." Again he waited for a nod. "As backup."

  "I'll keep it in the safest place in New Orleans—the police station. Unofficially, of course."

  "By the way, thanks for coming."

  "Well," Cy Bill grinned, "I'm making this YouTube video, and riding in on Ebony with six-shooters drawn was a dramatic way to begin it."

  59

  Working till nearly midnight in his office, the Patriot had one more task. He called his Balkan connection. As always he spoke with a French accent, tenoring his bass voice and offering no apology for waking him before six—the man was well paid. He asked about the Peterson results.

  The elite's investigative ingenuity and success merited a bonus. He had managed to get himself on the Petersons' flight and was now in the hotel room next to theirs. The informative narrative included the bishop's actions, contacts, and conversations on the plane and at the Skopje airport. The Patriot listened intently to the minute details. Time-consuming but necessary.

  Finally the monologue reached its conclusion. "The man is a historian, interested in the past, not the present, and certainly not the future. The woman is a naïve bishop. No more. No less."

  "Do you guarantee that, monsieur?"

  "When they leave their room, I will take advantage of their absence. She carries a laptop. I'll check it."

  "Excellent." The Patriot had almost as much confidence in his Balkan connection as in himself.

  "If I find anything that alters this report, I'll contact you. The usual way." With a chuckle he added, "I think the bishop actually believes that the power of love can change the world."

  Compassion—ineffective but harmless. "I appreciate your thoroughness," he said, putting a smile in his voice. "Au revoir." The Patriot ran his thumb across the fleur-de-lis. The panel dropped, and he returned the phone to JFK, whose sculpture guarded the secret storage compartment. Still smiling, he commended himself for using caution before targeting an innocent. "There are so few of us these days," he muttered. The Statue of Liberty had once welcomed him as a young man to an idealistic America, a land of honor and dreams, where individualism danced with the common good, and patriotism partnered with reason. He longed to restore the days before polarization tainted the country. Yet BarLothiun had profited from the demise of the old ways. John Adams knew how to walk beside all peoples. Sometimes disturbing but always necessary.

  As his thoughts turned to the President, he wondered if he was becoming obsessed. He quickly dismissed the idea. His initial thought about her . . . exit . . . had shocked him, too frightening to pursue. Yet it still hovered in the shadows of his mind.

  60

  Lynn heard the alarm clock. Her hand groped for the off button, her eyes still closed. It wasn't set. But it rang on. Where am I? Possibilities sifted through grogginess. New Orleans. Vienna. Skopje! Five memories fired like bullets in rapid succession: the Major's death/the President's letter/her denial/the Elie-Sasha-Natalia symbol/isolation for interrogation. She felt battle fatigue.

  But for the moment she was safe, tucked in a cozy bed at the Hotel Aleksandar. It's Wednesday, she recalled. And then she remembered what she wanted to forget: Elie was killed a week ago today.

  The ringing stopped. "Hello," said Galen's half-awake, sluggish voice. "Thank you." He clicked the phone down. "Our eight-thirty wake-up call."

  "Eight-thirty! They're joking." She opened her eyes and willed them to focus on the clock. Eight-thirty. It was in on the joke. Yesterday's exhaustion and her sleepless night contaminated her muscles and seeped into her bones. Her eyelids shut again, closing the drapes on the new day, settling into oblivion's comfort.

  Galen's words drifted through the fog. "I have good news and bad news."

  She didn't muster the energy to open her eyes. "Good news first, Love," she mumbled, planning to be asleep before he got to the bad news.

  "President Dimitrovski invited us for coffee this morning. Remember?"

  "And the bad news?"

  "President Dimitrovski invited us for coffee this morning." He put his arms around her and with a hug lifted her into a sitting position. "Mihail will pick us up in an hour. We have to get up."

  She opened one eye. Get up. Unpack. Dress. Her eye closed.

  "I suppose we could make apologies, Lynn. With all that's happened, he would understand."

  That opened her eyes. "Brilliant, Galen!" This time her eyelids pulled off the first feat: staying open. Muscles pulled off the second: dangling legs off the bed. Before her toes hit the floor, she prayed as always. But this morning instead of lifting up her long list of names individually and enjoying the image of each face, she abbreviated the process and prayed for The List. An unworthy shortcut. My loss, she confessed, trusting God's grace to encompass shortcuts.

  "You're a trooper, Lynn."

  "No. Just curious. I don't like missed opportunities."

  "It is an honor that the President invited us."

  The President. Her mind triggered to Will's weird email. Maybe the President had sent it to mislead him and would send another directly to her. She set the Baby on the dresser and started to open it.

  "Email will keep, Lynn. We're short on time."

  "Right." She had to let it go. Nothing at the moment was as important as their meeting with President Dimitrovski. She showered quickly and put on her blue suit.

  Galen picked up Natalia's checkbook-sized box. "This little package was a source of unintended consequences." He wrote "To Father Nish from Natalia" across the lid in blue ink, remembering the words tossed away with the brown paper at the airport. The euros and drawing were still inside. "We can't leave all this money lying around the hotel room. Let's take it with us." He looked at Lynn. "Is there room in your purse?"

  "Barely. I don't want to lug Big-Black. Inappropriate for coffee with the President of Macedonia. Besides, they might suspect me of sneaking in a bomb."

  "Granting Natalia's favor caused us almost as much trouble as a bomb." He handed it to her. "This courier business is perilous! It leads to the unpredictable."

  You wouldn't believe!

  61

  President Basil Dimitrovski, almost Galen's height, sat tall in the c
ushioned wrought-iron chair in the small garden outside his private office. Birds sang violin and cello parts while a cascading fountain sang an aria, splashing and sparkling in the sun. Flowers scented the air. The server set a tray on the wrought-iron coffee table. Four small, pretty jam jars stood beside teaspoons and glasses of ice water.

  "Tursko Kafe," explained Mihail. "You are getting a taste of one of our traditions." He pointed to the jam jars. "That is slatko."

  President Dimitrovski added to Milhail's cultural information. "It is sour cherry, my favorite," he said. "First, we will have ozguldum kafe—the welcome coffee. The second coffee follows, the muabet kafe of long conversation, and then the sikter kafe, the farewell coffee."

  Lynn realized his graciousness to offer them so much time. She anticipated a delightful morning. "We are grateful for your kind invitation and your time, Mr. President."

  He peered at her with eyes darker than Galen's but equally piercing. "We could retain President and Bishop. However, titles would distance us and limit the potential outcome of our time together."

  "I respect you and your office," she explained.

  "You may call me by my Christian name with equal respect." His face folded easily into a smile. "Perhaps you will permit me to do the same."

  The issue, settled for the President, left Lynn unsettled. Basil would stick in her throat.

  He lifted his cup. "I welcome you as friends." Lynn, Galen, and Mihail did likewise.

  "We celebrate your friendship," Galen said, avoiding calling him by name.

  Lynn noticed the seal on the tray—a golden sunrise over a royal blue mountain with wavy waters at the base, the sides bordered by wheat and poppy plants. "Is that your coat-of-arms?" she asked, also omitting his name.

  "So it is, Lynn. It portrays the sun rising above Shar Mountain and Ohrid Lake. It represents the sun of freedom rising over Macedonia."