The Dead Saint

by Marilyn Brown Oden

  The Patriot followed the usual procedure to reach her. It took her less than ten minutes to find a secure place to talk to him. They spoke in Kwanyama, a relatively uncommon African language that his global contacts received a bonus for learning—except Africans, who were offered the same bonus for learning Lakota, an American Indian language spoken by fewer than ten thousand people.

  Radmila was very efficient, but there was little news that mattered and no trouble he could logically link to Fillmore. Before ending the call, he courteously asked about President Dimitrovski. She was loyal to the President—a prerequisite for his global contacts. Disloyal people would also be disloyal to him. However, his contacts' loyalty stopped short of confessing their financially rewarding arrangement to pass on information.

  Radmila responded with affection in her voice. "He is well. He left about an hour ago to fly to a conference in Mostar. A CIA agent is flying with him. He needed emergency transport."

  CIA agents didn't need emergency transport. "Say more."

  "He showed his credentials and was approved. No one dares question the CIA."

  John Adams felt a reflux of acrid foreboding. "Who was it?"

  "Someone else handled that."

  A dead end. For a second he felt relieved.

  "But it seemed a strange request," she continued thoughtfully, "so I remembered the name. Frank Fillmore."

  Trepidation riveted him. He gripped the phone. His mind raced. Six months ago he'd arranged false CIA credentials for Fillmore, who considered one identity for a period of time less risky than simultaneous aliases. His assignment had been to free a journalist abroad whom the U.S. government had shown an enormous capacity to ignore. Justice called for her release, and her gratitude put her in the Patriot's pocket, a great asset. Now Fillmore, always for sale, had reused those credentials and perhaps built a bomb to kill President Dimitrovski—but his survive-at-all-costs mentality would stop short of throwing in his own life. "So Fillmore flew with him?"

  "No. He became ill just before takeoff. The President's driver took him back to his hotel."

  Oh, Jahweh-Christ-Allah! He must alert Air Traffic Control. "Thank you," he said, intending to end the conversation.

  "The President called today," Radmila added.

  "Dimitrovski?"

  "No. Benedict."

  "When?"

  "At one."

  He translated it to seven this morning in D.C. That was the Lincoln Memorial call.

  "She set up a telephone appointment for tomorrow afternoon."

  So her call was merely to another president, not a secret liaison. He felt reassured and a bit paranoid.

  "The President contacted—"

  "Benedict?"

  "No. Dimitrovski. He contacted another person to participate in the call. She must be important. He phoned her himself."

  "Do you know who?"

  "An American. She and her husband had coffee with him this morning."

  "Who?" he asked again.

  It seemed a very long time before Radmila answered. He could almost hear her thinking. "I remember now. Bishop Lynn Peterson."

  75

  A storm blew in from the ebony bank of clouds in the northwestern sky as Lynn and Galen finished the day's schedule. Agent Nedelkovski and a driver picked them up as President Dimitrovski had requested, and began the circuitous route to a safe house. The very idea of a safe house made her feel unsafe, and the armed escort for security brought anything but a feeling of security. She wanted to know where they were going, but the tense atmosphere did not invite questions.

  Galen sat rigidly beside her, concentrating, probably on their route. She saw anxiety in his eyes. They were used to being in strangers' hands—but those were church people. These men were trained to expect the worst from people.

  The storm worsened by the minute while the driver circled blocks, made sudden turns, reversed directions. She wondered if they were being followed. Or if they were being taken into danger instead of out of it.

  Stop it, Lynn!

  This time she listened to intrusive Ivy. If President Dimitrovski trusted Agent Nedelkovski, then so would she.

  Just think of him as Ol' Ned.

  He was too fit to be thought of as old, but Ned would work.

  Finally the car came to a stop near a house set amidst trees. Lynn couldn't see it clearly because of the heavy rainstorm. It ran in rivulets down the driveway, etching a myriad of mud puddles like oversized honeycomb. She gripped the door handle to get out.

  "Remain in the car!" Nedelkovski commanded. He drew his gun and scanned 360 degrees, then unlocked the door to the house. Gun held steady with both hands, he shoved the door open with his foot and stepped cautiously inside.

  Silence.

  Ned returned and opened her door. She tasted sulfur as a bolt of lightning raced in a zigzag path across the sky. They ran into the house, drenched by the rain. He gave them a moment to scan the room, then smiled. "President Dimitrovski asked me to give you a message: 'Welcome to the Lincoln bedroom.' "

  Galen and Lynn laughed, releasing tension, tension that the President would have assumed they would feel as they entered a safe house. She asked what she'd been wondering. "Was someone following us?"

  "No one can follow our drivers," he replied proudly.

  Lynn's eyes roved over their surroundings, the simplicity inviting. Sparse furniture—old but comfortable. Two olive wingback chairs opposite a tweedy tobacco sofa. Wooden table with four unmatched chairs. Small kitchen off to the side. Stairs that probably led to the bedrooms. Cozy, but she verged on imploding with anxiety when she noted the bars on the windows in this isolated place.

  "There is tea in the kitchen if you would like to make it," suggested Ned. "I'll check upstairs."

  "Are we prisoners or guests, Love?" she whispered to Galen softly.

  He put his arm around her reassuringly. "President Dimitrovski is overcautious."

  She went into the kitchen, found a jar of tea on the open shelf, and put water in the kettle. Thunder played tympani while gales of wind bent the trees and wailed down the safehouse chimney. Sheets of rain pounded the roof and splattered the window panes. The musty odor of wet leaves mingled with the aroma of tea leaves. As she waited for the water to boil, she thought of the novel she hoped to write someday. Agent Nedelkovski and the driver would be holding them hostage, surreptitiously working for the bad guys instead of President Dimitrovski. Maybe hired by St. Sava. It was not a comforting scenario, especially accompanied by the sound effects.

  Ned and Galen walked into the kitchen as the agent said, "Tonight I'll place one guard outside and another inside."

  Safely guarded or under guard, Lynn?

  Either way, she'd be glad for the company. Thick trees hide more than just four-footed animals, and thunder covers more than bird chirps.

  "I apologize for any inconvenience."

  "We are the ones who should apologize," said Galen. "Our stay has become troublesome for you. We would be quite content to stay at our hotel."

  "You are important people to President Dimitrovski. I am honored to have responsibility for your safety."

  "Thank you, Agent Nedelkovski." Lynn smiled at him. "I know we are in good hands."

  He returned her smile with a twinkle in his eye. "It is safe for you to play solitaire here."

  She laughed, feeling more at ease, and poured three cups of tea that they carried into the main area.

  "I understand you met Viktor Machek," he said, that same twinkle in his eye. "Many tales are told about him."

  And, thought Lynn, he tells many tales. Like being Russian and pretending to admire my book. Ouch.

  "What is your favorite tale?" asked Galen.

  "I'll tell you one just as it was told to me." He cleared his throat and began:

  Four men with Uzis captured Machek. They strapped his wrists together in the front and walked him deep in the woods to a place of interrogation, a guard leading and the others following their prison
er. One moment all was calm. The next a hurricane hit!

  Machek leaped at Number One in front of him. Looped his strapped wrists over One's head. Locked his arms against his sides. Grabbed hold of the Uzi. Held his finger on the trigger. Pivoted so he and One faced the others, Number One in human-shield position.

  It happened too fast for them to react.

  "Throw down your guns!" Machek ordered.

  Number Two balked. A mistake! Machek pulled the trigger. Shot the gun from Two's hands.

  "Throw down your guns!" he ordered again.

  Number Three hesitated. Another mistake! Another bloody hand!

  Number Four complied.

  "Now drop your weapons belts!"

  Number Four rebelled. Charged him. Machek heaved the butt of the Uzi backward into One's belly. He gagged and tripped. Machek hung on to the Uzi. Jerked his arms over One's head. Slammed him into Four. Spun. Landed a knockout kick. It put Four on the ground with a broken jaw.

  Machek grabbed a knife from a weapons belt. Put the handle in his mouth. Raised his hands above the blade. Slashed the wrist straps. Freed his hands.

  One lunged. Machek dodged. Spun and kicked. Broke One's nose and knocked him out.

  Machek took nylon cords from the weapons belts. Rolled each guard face down. Tied their hands—bloody or not—behind them. Bent their right knee backwards. Tied their right foot to their hands. Four guards deactivated in seconds! Like a cowboy wrestling steers in an American movie.

  Machek brushed off the knees of his pants and walked off a free man again.

  Ned paused.

  "That's a remarkable story," said Lynn, wondering how much it had been exaggerated.

  "And it's true. I know because I'm the one who found the four." He paused dramatically. "All of them enemies of Macedonia. Machek did us a favor." He smiled. "What's interesting is that they spoke of him with admiration, almost awe. They got some battle scars, but he could have killed them and didn't." He wrapped the words in his own admiration.

  Better to have Viktor as a friend than an enemy, Lynn.

  Three sharp staccato rings alerted Ned. "Excuse me. I must answer."

  Lynn didn't understand the words he spoke into the phone, but she did understand his silence. His face paled in the universal language of tragedy. Dazed, he rushed to the door.

  "Agent Nedelkovski, wait!" she called. "Can we help?"

  "Pray for a miracle." He jerked open the door. Rain poured in.

  "What happened?" Galen asked.

  He glanced back at them, unable to control the quaver in his voice. "It's President Dimitrovski. SFOR Air Traffic Control lost his plane from radar at 16:01." Automatically, he glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes ago."

  76

  General Thornburg stood behind his desk chair at NATO headquarters in Naples. His aide entered and handed him a communiqué:

  SFOR Air Traffic Control reports that the plane carrying President Basil Dimitrovski of Macedonia was lost from radar control at 1601 hours in the region of Stolac, BiH. ATC recordings of pilot's words indicate a crash.

  The news hit him like a preemptive strike. He slammed his fist into the back of the chair and glowered at his aide. "What is this!"

  "I am sorry, sir."

  The general watched him shrink and tried to control his rage. "I know—don't kill the messenger. You're dismissed." What he wouldn't give to discuss this with Marsh. Grief surfaced, and abruptly he shut it down.

  The eighteen hours of fireworks that began Tuesday at 1800 hours had gone well. No NATO casualties and, as far as he knew, not a single civilian casualty. But now this! The news alarmed him primarily because the loss of President Dimitrovski's leadership would be a gigantic step backward from international peace, perhaps an irreversible one. The general knew that he must predict all the possible repercussions and plan accordingly. A strategic nightmare. One more step in the march toward chaos.

  He thought again about Major Manetti. The unusual request from the State Department for Major Marshall Manetti to protect some fool bishop and her husband who doesn't have enough sense to keep her out of harm's way. Followed by the major's assassination. The best soldier I've ever known. The best man. The best friend. Who was behind it? Someone at State? A prissy politician who requested the favor? Why? Again he tried to shut down his grief. Then a bomb was planted at the Austrian President's reception, though not made public. And now President Dimitrovski's plane is missing—meaning it crashed on a stormy day in the mountains. Or something more sinister. He wondered whether some of these disasters were connected.

  He decided to design his own strategy. If there were connections, he'd find them. Shifting to combat stance, he picked up the phone and ordered a plane and four aides to go to Stolac, Bosnia-Herzegovina, immediately. To their surprise, he boarded the plane himself. He personally would get to the bottom of this. He owed it to Marsh.

  77

  Galen looked at his watch and turned on thet TV. "It's 4:16. Air Traffic Control lost sight of the President's plane fifteen minutes ago."

  Each roll of thunder seemed to reverberate the words. Lynn stared at the screen, rigid and silent, fervently praying for the plane to reappear.

  At 4:30, BBC aired breaking news:

  The plane carrying Macedonian President Basil Dimitrovski is missing.

  "Missing," repeated Lynn. "Not crashed. There's still hope."

  The Bosnian Civil Aviation Administration reports that radar lost the plane at 16:01 about 30 kilometers south of Mostar in the mountainous region of Stolac. Radio contact is broken. A crash is feared. We will continue to bring you updates.

  While Lynn worried about the President, Galen painted the big picture. "His death could send ripples through the Balkans like another tsunami across the earth."

  And it would break the hearts of Gonka and their children, Lynn thought. She forced herself to step beyond stunned paralysis and trudged upstairs, her ears attuned to TV for the next update. She noted the packing mess from their hurried hotel exit, and while raindrops kerplunked rapidly on the slate roof, she piddled away the time by straightening the clutter. A methodical and mindless task. Something she could control. Everything tucked into its bit of space. No surprises. No sadness.

  But also an illusion. In the real world a giant soul like Basil Dimitrovski was threatened, a man of peace among warmongers. She thought of her own small existence. A woman who could not even keep her own child alive. She ceased her idle movements, centered herself, and prayed for him.

  She heard the TV show interrupted for a news bulletin and ran down the stairs.

  The somber-voiced reporter spoke:

  Bosnia and Herzegovina—BiH—officials have confirmed that President Basil Dimitrovski of Macedonia has been killed in a plane crash. There are no survivors. The Macedonian delegation accompanying the President on the King Air B-200 was en route to an economic conference in Mostar.

  They showed a photograph of President Dimitrovski.

  A rescue team found the crash site and the plane's remains in the region of Bitunje village in Berkovici municipality. The Civil Aviation Administration has established an investigating team, but bad weather is expected to be the cause.

  Lynn heard raindrops hit the window panes like tears of the Loving Creator.

  Tomorrow will be a National Day of Mourning in Macedonia.

  "The planet is a lesser place tonight than it was this morning," said Galen, taking her hand as she sat beside him on the sofa. "President Dimitrovski's life controverts the old image of pulling a hand from a bucket of water and it makes no difference."

  She agreed. "The waters part like the Red Sea around the space he leaves." A few minutes later they heard church bells pealing in the distance. Galen rose and began to pace. Lynn watched him. Action for him, she thought. Tears for me. We handle grief in our own way. "Poor Gonka and the children," she said, vividly recalling the moment she'd learned of Lyndie's death. She also remembered the morning she laid all the pieces of her broken
heart before God, hoping that someday, somehow, God would put them back together and make her whole again. Be with his family, her heart prayed as tears rolled down her cheeks. The loving care of their church would support them. How, she wondered, do people bear their loss if they have no faith community and pastor's presence? She sat immobile for a long time, a deep sadness spilling over the levee and flooding her soul.

  78

  John Adams hunched over his desk. President Dimitrovski, killed in the plane crash. He'd done nothing to stop it, and the consequence was unalterable. Shame crept into an empty crevice of his guarded heart. He relived those fateful moments of his decision: I thumb the first three numbers to call Air Traffic Control and ask them to warn the pilot. I see the worldwide headlines: JOHN ADAMS SAVES LIFE OF MACEDONIAN PRESIDENT. Then I freeze. How will I explain my knowledge? I can call anonymously on my secure line. But what if an investigation of Fillmore's false CIA credentials leads back to me? Fillmore will do anything to save himself. What if he incriminates me for previous directives? Or cuts a deal by accusing me of ordering the assassination? The charge won't stick, but the accusation itself will tarnish my image. And what if an investigation ultimately links the Patriot and John Adams? Elias Darwish is dead for nothing. Logic wins: Intervention is not prudent. Besides, any blood will be on Fillmore's hands, not mine. It isn't my country and it isn't my problem. Onerous but necessary. I put down the phone, relinquishing my power to prevent disaster.

  And now the President was dead and Fillmore was safe. He wondered who had contracted Fillmore. I'll find out, he swore, ignoring the darkest part of his heart that knew the other reason he hadn't finished his call to Air Traffic Control: A crash would accomplish the objective of the failed Schönbrunn Palace bomb—bringing fear and chaos, demonstrating that presidents are not invulnerable, and prompting POTUS to stop discounting one who can give her wise counsel—like John Adams. Deep down where he didn't want to go, he felt vindicated.