The Dead Saint

by Marilyn Brown Oden

  Somehow she had obtained a clean phone with encryption technology, one neither provided nor sanctioned by the U.S. government—a feat as impossible as skating on the moon. Yet she'd done it. And Lone Star could not obtain access. She was smart—he had to give her that. The trusting President had grown slippery. He was not worried personally. John Adams's reputation was built on trustworthiness. He would likely be the last person in D.C. she would mistrust. In the first place, he was too good at predicting trouble spots both nationally and internationally—a skill abetted by his initiating some of them. Second, his BarLothiun mop-up contracts afterward were appreciated as economically and responsibly fulfilled. He knew how to act surprised by news he'd already learned through his arms sales. He excelled in these games but grew weary of them.

  The President's clandestine call required him to peer carefully into the cracks and crevices he might have overlooked earlier and to reconsider her potential contacts, another wearisome task. Repetitious but necessary.

  Why does one little phone call matter, John Adams wondered. The Patriot knew why. The call that is the most secret is the most significant. She had slipped through his invisible net, and he felt defied, demeaned, even defiled. Oh, yes! One little call mattered!

  He'd expected passivity and appreciation from President Helena Benedict. Instead she'd forced him into a power struggle, and he didn't intend to lose. The word was not in his vocabulary. But he resented the energy that winning took, energy he wanted to spend on building a kingdom of righteous justice. He didn't need an errant president! Neither did the country.

  Nor did he need an errant Frank Fillmore. "Terrorize and paralyze" was Fillmore's mantra. From the beginning he had tracked the maverick elite, keeping tabs on his location and other jobs he accepted. Now Fillmore was in Skopje and had, in fact, flown on the same plane as Viktor Machek. Fate had defied the Patriot's immutable rule to keep elites separated. They didn't know each other, but he didn't like it. Machek was on the plane to investigate the Petersons. He didn't know why Fillmore went to Skopje, but he felt uneasy. Perhaps it was better not to know the reason.

  71

  The morning sun had made it to the Big Easy and beat down on Bubba as he hopped into his silver 'Vette's red leather seat and headed to the Superdome. He gave the steering wheel a couple of fond pats and glanced at the clock on the matching red dash. Wind whooshed through the convertible, sucking up the humidity and cooling his shaved scalp. Days like this reminded him why he lived here instead of up North where a man wasted a good part of each year just buttoning and unbuttoning his overcoat.

  He thought of Elie as he opened the locker room door. One week since your death, bro. And no progress on who did it. But maybe that is about to change.

  Last night's visit from Pit Bull and Shar-Pei had left him with an unaccustomed sense of wariness. His eyes zeroed in on every inch of the locker room before entering. It stood empty, as quiet and mournful as yesterday, still permeated with the scent of male athletes. Once again he pawed through his locker. Last night's goons didn't limit break-ins to condos. Locker rooms would be a snap. He dug faster for the flash drive.

  Found it! Right where he'd left it—where Elie had left it—still in the white sock. Relieved, he pulled it out and palmed it like a thief. Dropped it into his sports bag. Tossed some gym clothes on top. The closer he drew to learning what the flash drive would reveal, the greater his sense of urgency. He drove too fast to the Tulane library. A Saint could always talk his way out of a ticket.

  As Bubba entered the library, a young woman waved to him. "I'd be right pleased to help you find something, Bubba Broussard."

  This morning wasn't a good time to be recognized, but he smiled at her and glanced inconspicuously at her name badge. "Today all I need is a computer. Thank you for offering, Miss Jean." She beamed when he said her name—each person's favorite word. Unless, came the sinister thought, they're hiding behind an alias.

  His eyes circled the room for trouble—only a few people at the library this early, all concentrating on their own work. To screen out onlookers he chose a back corner and plugged in the flash drive. The little device took on a power of its own as he realized it might have cost Elie his life. His tension mounted as the letters appeared on the screen. It listed only two files: BUBBA and PROJECT. He scanned the room again. Muscles taut with suspense, he opened BUBBA.

  If you're reading this, I'm dead. I knew you would figure out the note. Tell NO ONE about this flash drive.

  I've already messed up that play, Elie. But Cy Bill is on our team.

  There are people willing to kill for it. DO NOT let it fall into the wrong hands.

  Keep it safe until the right person comes to you. He will identify himself with the symbol below.

  Elie had scanned in the symbol on his medal.

  He opened the PROJECT file, unconsciously leaning in toward the screen. Eager. Impatient. Apprehensive about what he'd find. Hoping it would solve the enigma of Elie's death. The document emerged. His fist clenched and he almost slammed it into the screen.

  He stared at an obscure tangle of undecipherable, incomprehensible Cyrillic letters. He couldn't read it and he didn't dare risk getting it translated. If Lynn were here, she'd be able to read the letters and make out the sounds. But that wouldn't really help. Knowing the alphabet of a language but not the words was like knowing a team's jersey numbers but not the plays they could form together.

  He decided to try Google Translate. He looked laboriously for the Cyrillic symbols to match the first three words in Elie's document. The translation for each came out as gibberish. Not only Cyrillic, code in Cyrillic. He sat there with no more information than before. Frustration led to anger. He felt angry at the inanimate flash drive. Angry at the people who'd caused Elie's death. Angry at the violation against the Saints. And angry at Elie for living so dangerously and not asking for help before it was too late.

  Yes. Angry at Elie. Immediately, guilt about his anger set in like gangrene. Grief is a process, he reminded himself, a painful process. Anger is part of it. Take it one step at a time. Over and over and over again.

  With a heavy-hearted sigh he copied both files to his own flash drive. You wouldn't like this, Elie, but if Cy Bill has a copy, he can carry on if something happens to me. If something happens. That could scare a man. But the big something would happen someday anyway. So what's the big deal?

  Bubba deleted all his input and also clicked on Empty the Recycle Bin, leaving the computer as innocent as he'd found it. He wasn't quite paranoid enough to crash the hard drive. In high-alert mode he tucked the original and the copy into his pocket, sorely aware that all traces of Elie's data would disappear if anything happened to him before he got to Cy Bill. On his way out he forced a nonchalant nod to the student librarian. "Good day, Miss Jean."

  Her smile reflected all that was good in the world. A stark contrast to the evil of Elie's death.

  72

  Throughout the rest of the luncheon meeting at Mihail's church, part of Lynn's mind remained on the mysterious one o'clock call coming in on President Dimitrovski's secure line tomorrow.

  You know who is calling, Lynn.

  Who but President Benedict would bother with a secure line? Still bewildered by her confusing response via Will, Lynn hoped without much hope that was who it was. As the courier and retriever of the note, she felt responsible and wanted to assist the president.

  If the note actually came from her, Lynn.

  Even if it didn't, Ivy, she needs to know what I was asked to do supposedly on her behalf.

  The meeting ended with some time to spare before the next one, and Lynn took the opportunity to check email. She wanted to catch up on whatever Fay had forwarded to her and also to respond more fully to Bubba. First Bubba. Awash in guilt over Elie's medal, she reread his email.

  She had let both him and Mrs. Darwish down. The medal would have been precious to her. Lynn knew firsthand the value of a symbol of a child's presence when faced wit
h the forever-absence of the beloved one. She puzzled over Bubba's choice of the euphemism jewelry for the medal. We're both using code.

  She recalled Viktor's eagerness this morning to pounce on Elie's medal when he thought she had it. She was almost relieved it had been stolen. She rued saying St. Sava when she recognized the symbol as Cyrillic letters. She'd never heard of St. Sava until she read President Benedict's note to Marsh. Even Will was under the impression that the CIA had no proof of its existence. Yet saying those two words had made a profound impact on President Dimitrovski and Viktor, changing the atmosphere in the garden and landing Galen and her in a safe house tonight. Did Elie's medal mean he was connected with St. Sava? What about Sasha? And what role did Natalia play? This puzzle had too many edge pieces missing. President Dimitrovski's words from his phone call a while ago rang in her ears as clearly as though he were speaking them again: Things are not always what they appear to be.

  She longed to tell Galen the whole story from limo envelope to delivery to stealing it back to presidential denial. She needed his insight. Again Vice President Parker's voice echoed from the limo: Totally confidential. Maybe he said that because he didn't want the President to know what he was doing.

  Don't go there, Lynn.

  At least she could tell Bubba about Elie's medal. Confession time. Way past confession time. She tried to distance herself from his disappointment as she began her confession:

  Bubba,

  I won't go into why now, but I don't have the jewelry. So very, very sorry. Sniper stole it. Have cell phone photos

  Whoa! She wanted Bubba and Cy Bill to know about those profile photos, but the memory of his cruel eyes gave her pause. More than just pause. She was trembling. His eyes zoom-lensed on her mental screen. They seemed to follow her everywhere. New Orleans. Frankfurt. Vienna. She shook off the irrational horror, but still feared writing in an email that she had his photo. As soon as she could get the software and load it on the Baby, she would send her photos to him. She deleted "Have cell phone photos" and continued:

  The jewelry is not unique to our friend. Have discovered the symbol's meaning.

  She felt a tremor of fear for Bubba.

  Stay alert. Watch yourself.

  Because of her two bad laptop experiences since landing in Skopje—last night when Agent Nedelkovski grabbed it but only saw solitaire on the screen, and this morning when someone broke into their room and opened her email—she added:

  Imperative to guard words in emails to me.

  Stay safe in the Quarter.

  Lynn

  She clicked Send. Deleted both his and her emails. Deleted the recycle bin copies.

  Her message required too much reading between the lines. Communication with Bubba had been reduced to enigmatic notes and immediate deletions. She thought back to that fateful morning last week when she sat at Café du Monde going over her lecture for the bishops' conference. She didn't feel like the same person. She had lost her innocence.

  73

  As his entourage rolled onto the airfield, President Dimitrovski admired the white presidential plane, a Beechcraft Super King Air 200 with sleek blue trim outlined by a red strip on the nose, tail, and wings. He heard the pilots start the twin-engine turboprop. It would take about two hours to fly over the mountains to Mostar. "Where is our passenger?" he asked, agitated by his absence. "What is his name, Branko?"

  "Frank Fillmore." Branko opened the door for the President as they stopped beside the plane. Four other officials also prepared to board. "If I may say so, sir, I don't like a stranger traveling on your plane."

  The President smiled at his most loyal—and favorite—bodyguard. "It is difficult for staff to refuse the CIA and MI5. Anything in threes takes on mythological power."

  "I am not afraid of them, sir!"

  "Neither am I, Branko. Unfortunately that puts us in a very small minority." He smiled at the dependable young man, moved by the fact that he would die for him without hesitation.

  Shifting from Macedonian to English, Branko said, "The request to travel with you was impudent, impertinent, and ill-mannered."

  The President smiled again, aware that Branko fervently studied the English dictionary and enjoyed practicing new words. He must have reached the letter I, he thought fondly.

  "The President's plane is not public transportation."

  "Ah! It is Macedonian pride, then, that troubles you." His loyal bodyguard deserved to hear the truth. "A call was received this morning that Fillmore is needed in Mostar for an emergency. We are the quickest transport. A staffer granted permission as a favor."

  Branko's lack of approval showed clearly on his face. "Did he check the source to be sure?"

  "That is protocol."

  He tried another tack. "Look at the cloudbank in the northwest, sir. We cannot wait for Fillmore."

  President Dimitrovski noted both the cloudbank and Branko's persistence. "Agreed."

  With a relieved smile he suggested, "We can board immediately, sir. The rest of your delegation is here, and the pilots made the plane secure upon their arrival."

  As they moved toward the plane, a man exited the boarding door, waving feebly and teetering down the ramp. "Mr. President," he greeted weakly. "I am Frank Fillmore."

  "We were not aware that you were already on board."

  "I arrived early, sir. It's a booger to keep someone waiting." He reached the ground but still held onto the rail.

  "So it is."

  "I have suddenly taken a bit ill." He reeled and began to retch.

  "More than a bit, I'd say."

  "I am sorry, sir," he apologized. "A spot of food poisoning, I think. Portabella mushrooms, perhaps. Even the thought of them is sickening." He retched again.

  "Obviously, you aren't able to go to Mostar. My driver can take you to a doctor."

  "That is unnecessary, sir. Just a bed and a bucket will do."

  President Dimitrovski turned to Branko. "Please ask the driver to take Mr. Fillmore back to his hotel."

  "Yes, sir."

  Fillmore crawled heavily into the backseat and mouthed a feeble thank-you.

  The President watched the car turn around to leave the air-field. "I was preoccupied and didn't notice earlier, Branko, but I don't recall seeing today's driver before."

  "You haven't, sir. He's new. His credentials are impeccable."

  President Dimitrovski smiled to himself. Branko had definitely reached the letter I in his well-worn dictionary. He walked up the ramp and paused at the top to turn around. His eyes swept across the skyline of the city he loved. He glanced up appreciatively at the beautiful mountains on the horizon and then toward the darkening cloudbank above them. He turned back toward the plane and placed his hand for a moment on the painted coat-of-arms beside the boarding door—the wheat and poppy plants, the wavy waters and blue mountain, the sun of freedom rising above them all. The words of the national anthem came to his mind again: "Today above Macedonia the new sun of liberty is born." How he loved his country! May we continue to live in peace, he murmured to himself, a prayer without ceasing.

  He stepped inside the plane and felt an unease he didn't understand. The King Air B-200 started down the runway, and he glanced at his watch. Departure, 14:48. Three minutes late.

  Through the window he could see his car carrying Frank Fillmore fade into the distance. But he could not see the flight-steward-turned-driver, hired because of outstanding references, credentials, and resume—all false—remove the chauffeur's hat, hair falling to her shoulders. El Toro looked back at her "ailing" passenger and smiled in complicity.

  74

  John Adams stood at his office window, hands behind his back, staring blankly through the drizzle toward the Pentagon. He needed to concentrate on BarLothiun contracts, but his thoughts ping-ponged between President Benedict's phone contact and Frank Fillmore's curious presence in Skopje.

  Inside information pointed to factions displeased with President Dimitrovski. His ability to keep Maced
onia out of the Balkan war worked against two groups: those whose purpose was based on profit and also those whose purpose was based on principle. President Dimitrovski's enemies included people who considered peace to be contrary to their self-interests, political adversaries he'd beaten in his election, and blocs that wanted Macedonia to fight on their side. Logic leapt to a contract between Fillmore and one of the factions that wanted Dimitrovski overthrown. Shaken by the possibility, he turned away from the window and walked thoughtfully to his credenza to retrieve his phone from JFK. He had met President Basil Dimitrovski, who was the kind of president for whom faith and justice were more than expedient words to gain political capital. He expected his elites to serve justice by protecting the Dimitrovskis of the world, those rare leaders worthy of their office. The kind of president I would make, he thought, unlike Benedict.

  He had contacts on his payroll in most of the capitols in the world. They gave him current information on their countries, invaluable for initiating timely BarLothiun contracts as well as getting a heads-up for arms sales opportunities. Devious but necessary. Underpaid custodians were his best informants. A tax-free cash stipend was a way he could help the little people, a form of justice. Secretaries were careless about the phone messages they tossed in the trash and loose about leaving communication logs lying around. Custodians had keys to their offices. Clerks like Radmila, his contact in Skopje, were second best. A granny-type woman who'd been on staff for decades, she could gain access to any information he wanted.